


The Intruder

by hockeylass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Burglary, Gen, Kidnapping, Sickfic, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:39:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeylass/pseuds/hockeylass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after His Last Vow, with Sherlock exonerated and John enjoying a normal family life with Mary, John's domestic bliss is interrupted by a text from Sherlock and it leads to danger for both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy this, I've never written a fic before and I can't say I know where the idea for all this came from! I've tried to be as accurate with characters/medical information/locations as possible but there could be (probably is!) plot holes with them. It's been fun to write, at any rate, and if you like it, please let me know!
> 
> I'll be updating this every so often but there's be a two-week break coming up as I'm on holiday!

"I need you here, come quickly - SH"

John picked his phone up off the table, took a glance, and put it down, returning to the stir fry he was preparing for himself and Mary.

Mary, changing their daughter's nappy, was in the lounge. John looked at her and smiled. After all they had been through, they were somewhere near domestic bliss. Though for John, the nightmares and flashbacks were starting to creep in. Sherlock had withdrawn from public life again after the Magnussen shooting — damage limitation Mycroft had said. Together they had killed off the remnants of the Moriarty network, the last flourish of a desperate cult keen to keep the Consultant Criminal's legacy alive. Sadly for them, they didn't have 1% of his genius and were quickly caught. But John was glad of them, it meant Sherlock was back. Around the corner if he needed him, though the lack of cases was surely driving them both a little crazy.

And Sherlock needed him now, he realised. The detective could want him to go make the tea while he busied himself writing a blog about the different mould spores found in an average fridge, but then again, what if he was serious? He looked at his phone again and began to type.

"What's up? I'm cooking dinner - J"

John waited, for five minutes. Nothing. 

"Oh so you're in a mood with me now for not being quick enough? - J"

Nothing. John's stomach turned.

..........

He ached. Really, really ached. The wooden floor was unforgiving on his bony frame, and was bitterly cold. The darkness was cold, too. He didn't know where he was, only that it smelled familiar. Old varnish mixed with dust and newspaper ink, but there was also a rusty smell, fresh.

This was inconvenient, he deduced.

Prising his eyes open took every ounce of effort and when he did, things became clear. Fuzzy, but clear. 

He was at home, thank God.

But it didn't look like home. Chairs and tables were pushed onto their sides, his experiments obliterated, all his books thrown across the room with pages ripped out, his skull on the floor in the kitchen — with some teeth missing — the mirror cracked. His violin was shattered into a thousand pieces, his case files strewn all over. Above the fireplace, on the broken mirror a message, in black pen. Sherlock tried to focus in on it, but raising his head was excruciating. Head injury, he surmised. Not great.

As he considered his surroundings, a throbbing in his side began to get stronger. It was a dull pulse, of warm and of pain. He gingerly raised his hand off the floor and tried to hug himself in comfort, only to remove it again, wet with blood. 

He knew he was in trouble, he knew a hospital visit was inevitable, though highly inconvenient; he needed help. Using all his effort to scan the room he could see his phone on the kitchen floor, but he knew he had no strength to stand. Carefully and slowly, he pulled up his right elbow, and hauled himself along. It took what felt like hours, moving inch by inch, across the rug and the kitchen threshold. It was exhausting and abject agony....every movement was like something was being ripped up inside him. Eventually he came close enough to the phone to stop, and looking back he could see in the dim light, a huge smear of blood behind him. Mrs Hudson would not like cleaning that. 

With his outstretched arm, he pulled the phone towards him. The screen was cracked, but it worked still, thank god. Snatching at his breath and grimacing as he did so, he carefully typed a message, checking it read properly before he sent it. He didn't want to alarm his friend.

"I need you here, come quickly - SH"

As he pressed the send button, a wave of pain caused a sound he never thought he’d hear himself scream, and he was swept away into unconsciousness once more.

…......

“Mary, I think I need to get to Baker Street, I’ve got a horrible feeling about Sherlock,” said John, a hint of urgency in his voice causing Mary’s head to snap up.

“Do what you have to, love. I’ll hold your dinner for when you get back. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know, he sent me one of his usual ‘I need you’ texts. I've replied a couple of times but I've not heard anything since. Could be nothing, but...” John’s voice trailed off. He’d lost Sherlock once, then almost lost him twice again after Mary shot him. He thought that chapter of his life was over - he’d practically blocked it out for self-preservation purposes in fact. But now, instinct told him he’d have to relive those desperate feelings once again. And he didn’t like it one bit.

He grabbed his coat, kissed his daughter on the head and Mary on the cheek, and headed for the door. Before turning the handle he darted to the bedroom and grabbed his gun. A surge of adrenaline mixed with the fear and he felt, well, alive again.

He hopped in the next available cab, he’d be at Baker Street in 15 minutes with the Monday evening traffic dissipating. 

“Sherlock, please text, I’m on my way – J”

He waited, scanning the outside world as it went by, and nothing came. His heart began to pound. Sherlock wouldn’t ignore him, wouldn’t deliberately worry him, surely? He might be a sociopath but his relationship with John was complex and deep enough to know he wouldn’t put him through that again.

His fingers hovered over the screen, as he debated calling Lestrade, or Molly, or Mycroft. He erred on the side of caution, especially after Lestrade got a telling off for the back-up incident as Sherlock comprised his best man’s speech. That had been more than a tad embarrassing for the DI.

Time passed too slowly, but eventually, the cab pulled up outside the black door. John paid quickly and let himself in. Silence. Mrs Hudson must be out, he guessed. He checked the door again, no sign of forced entry...that didn’t mean much. Nevertheless, he crept up the stairs, careful not to hit any of the creaking boards he knew so well.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, gun in hand, primed. “Sherlock are you there?”

Nothing.

He noticed the lounge door shut, but the kitchen door ajar, a large crack through one of the glass panels grabbing his attention. He turned his coat jacket cuff over his hand, thinking about potential fingerprints, and nudged it open. 

And there he saw him.

Laying on his right side, his arm outstretched ahead of him with the phone close by, a list of John’s messages on the home screen. A trail of blood behind him. John rushed to his side, checking for a pulse. It was there, but it wasn’t strong. A thin film of sweat was upon his brow and cheekbones, and the skin around his eyes seemed dark, reddened.

“Shit Sherlock wake up,” he said, rapidly slapping at his face in a effort to wake him. He dialled 999, explaining what he saw, and then he called Lestrade.

“Greg can you get to Baker Street?.. I need back up and I need it now,” John shouted. "No, this isn't some kind of joke. Get here, and quick!"

Within ten minutes there were sirens everywhere. John had tried to rouse Sherlock with no joy, and was using his old coat to try to stem the flow of blood which came from the stab wound in his side. Judging by Sherlock’s deathly pallor, it was blood loss that would be the death of him, again. He shuddered.

“John-,” Greg shouted as he bounded through the door. He looked down. “Oh God, not again.” 

Paramedics came running through seconds after and began to treat Sherlock. An oxygen mask and IV was set up, the paramedics talking over one another at speed. John stood, pale and silent, as he watched them work and then lift Sherlock gently onto a gurney, before moving him down the stairs.

He was just about to follow them into the waiting ambulance, when he caught sight of the message on the mirror. "Greg, deal with this..." he said, as he dashed off.

The message - “You won’t catch me.”


	2. Chapter 2

He had heard John calling his name. He had made it, Sherlock thought, relieved. He tried to wake, but the darkness was enveloping him, along with the pain. It had gone from a throb to a full-on avalanche, reminding him all too vividly of a year before, in Magnussen’s office.   
  
Back then he had used his mind palace to help him through the incident. But, since he had no clue how he had ended up at this point, his mind was blank, how could he get out of this one?  
  
He knew the pain was there, but couldn’t remember how it had happened, his head pounded like it was being hit with a hammer. Maybe it was? It was all so confusing, so tiring.  
  
But unlike last time, he could hear John. John was there, helping him through this time, and he clung to that voice as though it was the only thing keeping him from ending up with Moriarty in that chamber. He did not want to go back there again.  
  
“Oh God, not again” he heard. Was that Graham? What was he doing here? He was happy at least the cavalry arrived, and gave in to the need for sleep. All was black again.  
  
.........  
  
The trip to the ambulance was panicked for John, deathly calm for Sherlock. The detective and the soldier, at each ends of the emotional spectrum, in sickness and in health.  
  
John could only watch as the paramedics tried to stem the blood still pouring from Sherlock’s side, and administer some pain relief. A small part of his mind was still at Baker Street, trying to work out the message and the mess.  
  
Everything about it looked like a break-in, and yet, no forced entry. The only thing John could think was that it was a client.  
  
“Any evidence or clues Greg – J” he text quickly. The response was immediate.  
  
“Well no sign of forced entry, nothing appears to be missing, though with Sherlock you can never tell. It’s just a bloody mess, literally.”  
  
“Ok well if you find anything, let me know. If...” John’s hand hesitated as he typed. “Sherlock wakes I’ll see what I can find out.”  
  
Sherlock’s blood pressure was falling through the floor, just as they reached the doors of A&E. Medics rushed him into a rapid response room, and ushered John into a waiting room he knew all too well.  
  
........  
  
Four hours later, a doctor appeared.  
  
“You’re Mr Holmes’s emergency contact, John Watson?” said the man, who looked as though he had been on shift for far too long.  
  
“Yes, how is he?”  
  
“Well he’s stable now but obviously he lost a lot of blood. The knife his attacker used was serrated so as he pulled it out, a fair amount of damage was done to the tissues, and it nicked a fairly large blood vessel on the way. We had to remove his spleen though, that was too damaged, so he’ll have to be careful with germs in future. He had a fair sized lump on his head, we discovered. So he’s pretty concussed as well.”  
  
“So he’ll be ok then?”  
  
“Yes I should think so, he’s very lucky.”  
  
 _Given the amount of time he’s spent on hospital operating tables in the last year I’d say not_ , John imagined.  
  
“Can I see him?”  
  
“Course you can, come with me,” said the doctor, kind eyes shining past dark bags and wrinkles.  
  
Sherlock was laid still and serene in the private room, his dark hair black as the night against his pale skin, tubes connecting Sherlock to the fluids he so desperately needed. The regular and quiet beeps of a heart machine kept pace in the corner. He looked just as he had done after the shooting, back to square one. Just as before, John sat beside him, and took his hand.  
  
“What on earth happened Sherlock,” he said, a pleading tone in his voice. “Just wake up and tell me you’re ok...”  
  
He heard him. Just as he had heard him before. Slowly, and with a fair amount of effort on his part, he pulled himself out of the darkness and into the light. A morphine-affected light, but a light all the same.  
  
“Sorry John, I...” Sherlock tried to lift the oxygen mask off his mouth but his arms betrayed his brain and wouldn’t move with any speed or accuracy.   
  
Craning to hear his friend, John just looked over him and said: “It’s ok, I’m not going anywhere and neither are you, just rest.”  
  
.......  
  
“I got to Baker Street and found him in a pool of his own blood Mary, I knew there was something wrong,” John said quietly down the phone in the hospital corridor. Phones weren’t allowed but he couldn’t not call his wife.  
  
“Was he shot....again?” Mary paused, taking a gulp of breath as a wave of guilt hit her. “Is he ok?”  
  
“No, he was stabbed but with a pretty nasty weapon by the sounds of it, lost a lot of blood and there was some serious repair work to do. They had to remove his spleen,” John said, rubbing an already tired face. “I want to stay with him tonight, do you mind?”  
  
“Sure love,” said Mary. “I’ll come by in the morning with some supplies for you. Anything else you want me to do?”  
  
“A discreet call to Mrs Hudson wouldn’t go amiss,” said John. “I have to call Mycroft.” As he said his goodbyes and hung up, his phone beeped.  
  
“How is my brother? M” said the text.  
  
“Well why don’t you come by and find out, seeing as you already know he’s here – J”

God that man infuriated him. Why didn’t he just act like normal people?  
  
“I’ll be over shortly,” came the curt reply.  
  
.........  
  
The next morning, Sherlock was stable and responding well to treatment, able to sit up and enjoy a cup of tea; even though it was nowhere near the quality of Mrs Hudson’s morning brew he could appreciate it all the same. Mycroft had visited at dawn, delivering a newspaper and a few choice words about Sherlock's clients and personal security. Sherlock treated his comments just as he treated all of Mycroft's - with distain. Nevertheless there was a part of him which was pleased to see his elder brother, not that he would ever show it. Mycroft took his leave after 15 minutes, which pleased John no end.  
  
"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" John said, putting down his plate of toast as Mycroft exited.   
  
"It's very foggy John. Can we go home?" Sherlock was already getting disgruntled, and he'd only been out of surgery 12 hours.   
  
"I don't think so mate, not after your last escapade. And don't even think of going through the window. You know it won't end well....So what can you tell me?"  
  
"I had a normal day, lots of very boring clients in and out the door, affairs, thefts, you know the kind. No murders to get into. I was playing my violin when I heard a knock. I knew someone was coming by. It was all very civil, well, boring to be honest. But I was humouring their tale of a stolen teddy bear at a toy museum when suddenly...." Sherlock's voice trailed off, and he winced as he shuffled himself up the bed. "Everything went black."  
  
"It wasn't the person with the stolen toy then," John said, probing.  
  
"She wasn't a day under 85 John, I know pensioners can be stronger than they look but I very much doubt it. That being said she had a sharp tongue. I remember waking at one point, when I text you, and there was a message on the mirror, but I couldn't read it. Do you know what it said John?"  
  
"I think it was something like 'you can't catch me'," John said.   
  
"Hmmmmmm," Sherlock winced as he pulled his hands under his chin, steeple pose engaged. "And the flat was wrecked....anything taken?"  
  
"Well Greg doesn't think so, but your place is such a mess he didn't know."  
  
"Who's Greg?"  
  
"Lestrade, Sherlock."  
  
"Oh."  
  
John rolled his eyes. How many times? He watched as his friend retreated to the place he knew best, or at least tried to. Sherlock's furrowed brow and thin lips told him the trip wasn't going to plan. He suddenly returned to the real world. "Damned morphine," he said, reaching out and turning off his supply.  
  
"What do you think you're doing Sherlock? You can't do that."  
  
"Well I think you'll find I just did," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.  
  
"Pain relief is there for your recovery. Jesus, Sherlock, after last time I thought you would have learned!"  
  
"Well if someone is saying I can't catch them, I see that as a challenge. They want to be caught. This is some kind of game....Oh!" Sherlock's face lit up - more like an energy-saving bulb than a full on floodlight but a glimmer of his old self shone out.  
  
"You can't be serious..." John knew exactly what he was thinking. The morphine was having a bigger effect on the Consulting Detective than he realised.  
  
"Well we got rid of the Moriarty mimics John. But what of Moriarty?"  
  
"He's dead Sherlock. You were bloody there!" John put his hands on his head in exasperation. "You can't possibly think it's him. It's not his style for starters."  
  
"Moran though...." Sherlock said. "What about Moran?"  
  
Moran hadn't been seen or heard of since Sherlock's escapades in Serbia. Sherlock had insisted he had disposed of Moriarty's network of henchmen, including his top sharpshooter and thug. He couldn't have got it wrong, could he? John looked at his friend with quizzical eyes. He didn't understand.  
  
Without morphine to keep him pain free, Sherlock struggled through his monologue. At least he didn't say it at break-neck speed like usual, so John could at least keep up.   
  
"Moran was the last man I had to find to kill off the network...I...was caught by him and," he inhaled sharply, "punished by him. I fought my way out in the end, I whacked him over the head with an iron bar, used the ropes that were tying my hands to choke him.   
"I thought....he went limp....I thought he was dead. Maybe he wasn't." Sherlock hissed at himself, punching the bed with his fists. "Stupid, stupid! I should have made sure!"  
  
"Calm down Sherlock," John put a reassuring hand on Sherlock's wrist. "If he's alive, then he's alive, you escaped in Serbia and that's the main thing. You're here."  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know what you think? I did consider going into more detail with each scene but in my head it's running like an episode, so I didn't want to dwell on parts, I wanted to keep it moving nicely along.


	3. Chapter 3

A week. A week was how long it took Sherlock to recover enough to get home. It was the longest week of his life. 

And the longest week of anyone unfortunate enough to visit or care for him. He was insufferable, practically clawing at the sheets to get out. John had made sure he was not going anywhere though, and his constant prescence prevented a certain apocalyspe. Sherlock had suffered a lot more than he was prepared to admit though. It took a few days for the dizzy spells, sickness and dark spots to stop after the concussion, all while his mangled insides took their time to heal. Plus of course, without his spleen, he was now prone to infections and viruses. It vexed him greatly that many of his experiments would now have to be done in Bart's instead of his kitchen. After a day-long sulk about this revelation, Molly visited and reassured him he could drop in any time, though Sherlock noted the supressed excitement in her voice that they'd now be spending more time together. 

Eventually though, and probably a few days earlier than he should have, doctors hastily signed discharge papers and sent him on his way. As John walked slowly out with him, checking Sherlock's face for signs of pain or weakness, he swore he heard the whoops and hisses of the medical staff, celebrating. He shook his head and smirked.

"What are you smiling at?" Sherlock gruffed, through tightened lips.

"Nothing," John quickly replied. "Nothing at all."

The cab ride home was smooth, though Sherlock wasn't particularly comfortable and practically fell out of it once it had stopped - bending double to disembark wasn't the best for his wound. But he was home, and as he looked up to the window to his beloved flat, he breathed a sigh of relief.

It took a while to get up the stairs and Sherlock was tired. But Mrs Hudson, Molly and Lestrade were waiting for him with tea and cake in hand, so he painted on half a smile. They had been in to clear up the mess left behind, though they hadn't replaced the mirror yet, and it looked odd, the colourful wallpaper underneath highlighting how discoloured the rest of the wall was. They had done a fairly good job, in fact it looked tidier than it was before. Sherlock could see things were out of his order though, and it took all his resolve not to berate them for not doing it properly. That could be sorted later, he surmised. 

"Thank you everyone," he conceded. "It's nice to be home."

John made sure Sherlock was comfortable in the lounge before going to his bedroom to get the bedding changed. Baker Street would have to be hygenic from now on and he wasn't prepared to take any chances. He'd already sent Mrs Hudson to get the strongest detergents and cleaning fluids in advance. She heeded the call, and had been busy scrubbing the floorboards ever since, to get the ball rolling. 

"How are you feeling dear?" said the old landlady, her warm smile bringing out the best in Sherlock. 

"Like I've been hit by a bus, but you know, getting there," he said. Suddenly he started looking around the room, a sense of panic in his eyes. "Something's missing."

"Is it?" Mrs Hudson chuckled. "Well you have so much clutter I don't know how you can tell!"

Sherlock grunted under his breath....what was it that was gone? He couldn't focus, everything was out of its usual place as it was, but something was definitely gone. He scanned the room, and desperately wanted to jump up and pull everything out until he found it. He was just too tired though, and before long he had drifted off to sleep.

"John, is he going to be alright, staying here?" Molly asked, nervously, some time later. It had taken her an hour or so to pluck up the courage to speak as the four of them sat round the kitchen table while Sherlock slept in the lounge. "I mean, if the attack happened here it could give him nightmares, the attacker could even come back. I'll take him in if it's needed."

"I think we will be alright," John said, Molly's hope dashed. "I'll stay for a few days to make sure, Mary won't mind. What's bothering me more is the fact he thinks something's missing. It could be important, it could give us clues to catch his attacker."

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, "mmmm....no" he muttered, before starting to thrash around on the sofa. "Get off me —" he shouted, loud enough to wake himself and sit bolt upright in panic. The sudden movement caused a flash of pain and he yelped before slumping back down. The welcoming party gathered round him quickly, but letting John check him over. 

"You won't want to be doing that every time you sleep Sherlock you'll pull your stitches," John said, worried. 

"I'll be fine John," Sherlock huffed. He slowly pulled himself to his feet and gingerly made his way to the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Maybe I'll stay longer than a few days," John said, sighing.

............

In a quiet corner of a darkened office, a man prepared his next move. The first part of his plan had gone like clockwork, now for the second stage.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was still unwell, but he was bored to tears and had already gone through all the minor cases Lestrade had brought round for him to solve. He needed something more intriguing, more dangerous, more taxing on his mind. He paced the sitting room, slowly. He had no violin to play either, which frustrated him even more.

"Will you sit down, you're making me dizzy," said John, putting down the newspaper. "Look, I know it's boring, frankly I'm bored watching you, but there's no rushing these things as you well know."

"John, please shut up. I'm trying to think."

"Ok.....what about?"

"There's something missing in this flat. Why can't I see the gap, notice the missing piece? If everyone hadn't bloody tidied up —"

"Sherlock, rude."

"Well! They've put it all away in the wrong order. This will take ages to get it back the way I want it!"

"A mess then?"

Sherlock shot him a cursive look. "You know my methods."

Sherlock's phone buzzed, breaking the silence. John noticed Sherlock's eyes light up as he listened to the words being spoken down the receiver. "I'll be there shortly," he said, a mix of excitement and apprehension on his face.

"Come on John, I think my missing item has just been found."

Sherlock wouldn't admit it but getting ready was uncomfortable and tiring. It wasn't going to stop him getting back out in the open air though, enjoying the thrill of the case, and the chase. He did his best imprssion of a skip down the stairs, wrapping his scarf around his neck tightly.

John looked up at his taller friend. "You sure you're ready for this Sherlock, I mean..." 

"Perfectly fine John, and perfectly ready."

The pair walked out the door of 221b and hailed a cab.

............

"Why would he make her eat that?" Lestrade said, rubbing the back of his head. 

"I don't know I'll ask her, shall I?" Molly was terrible at jokes. 

Sherlock was first to enter the lab, John following in behind, notepad in hand. "Can I have it?" said the detective, holding his hand out expectantly and breaking the silence.

"Well it's evidence at the moment Sherlock, but once we're done with it, course you can," Lestrade said. "What's so important about it anyway?"

"It's mine." Sherlock petulantly replied. He still looked very pale, Lestrade noted.

The little box was like an old fashioned pill box, no bigger than a 50p piece and about half an inch thick. Really tiny, John observed. It was feminine, with an enamel bird embossed across the top. John wondered why Sherlock had it in the first place, let alone why he wanted to keep it, or how he noticed it was gone.

"The body was found in the river," Lestrade said. "Death by strangulation," Molly interjected. "So she was—"

"Thrown in the water after she died," John interrupted. Sherlock was busy scanning the body while they talked. "Where's her clothes?"

Molly gestured to a large plastic bag at the other side of the room. Sherlock got out his magnifier and strode over, ready to scan it. 

"So I was just doing the routine internal and as well as the remnants of a Chinese takeaway I found the box in her stomach," Molly said. "It was so weird I knew it was aimed at Sherlock."

"Hmmmm" Sherlock agreed. "Exactly for me. Her suit is Westwood. She was a successful career woman, single, lived alone with a cat and a dog, but kept herself clean and tidy by the looks of things. Was probably off to a high profile meeting, or had just finished one, when this happened. Clearly this is her best suit but who would want to make her swallow my trinket box and then kill her?"

Sherlock rose up from his hunched position quickly and the movement made him wince. "John I think I need to go home and think about this in the peace and quiet."

"It's quiet in here Sherlock —" said Molly.

"No its not you're all watching me and thinking. And your thinking is getting on my nerves. Again. Lestrade let me know everything you find out about this woman, please." Sherlock took a deep breath and laboured his way out of the room, grabbing the trinket box off the side as he left. John shot Lestrade a concerned but knowing look, he followed suit.

............

He sat in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, deep in thought. John knew the pose so well, and knew not to interrupt the detective while he was working. So, after a tea, he began to write the latest entry of his blog. He called it, "The Intruder", but instead of his usual ramblings he kept it vague, and brief. He sensed the person who had attacked Sherlock, who had murdered that seemingly random woman, was looking for the notoriety. He couldn't be sure, but his instinct told him to keep quiet this time around. He almost didn't bother at all, but the press were sniffing about and it seemed like a good way of issuing some kind of news to silence them while Sherlock recovered. Within an hour of him posting there were hundreds of comments wishing Sherlock well, as well as, inevitably, people demanding to know more. 

"Mimic," Sherlock said suddenly. "Everything is a cheap copy..."

"I'm sorry, what?" John said, peering over the top of his laptop screen.

Sherlock sat straight, wincing slightly as he did so. It was odd to see him move so slowly, a huge departure from his normal hyperactive lurches and leaps. "Think about what's happened before John? The message, the missing trinket box, the Westwood suit. It all appears to be connected to Moriarty, and that is because it is.

"But it's not him, and its too clever for Moran, IF he's still alive which I can believe but at the same time I can't. So someone is being a copycat, someone is trying to mimic Moriarty."

"Why would they do that? I don't understand," John said, cutting off the end of the sentence knowing full well he said it far too often. Sherlock's phone buzzed.

"We have another one, at the pool - GL"

Without a word, Sherlock pushed himself upright, hands on knees, then strode, with feet scuffing on the floor, to the doorway to grab his coat and scarf. "Come on," he said.

"Why? Where are we going now?"

"Back to where we first met - me, you and Jim Moriarty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are all enjoying this! As I said before it's written like it would play out on the screen I think. That's just how my mind works :)
> 
> More tomorrow night, and then I will leave you in suspense for a fortnight I'm afraid. I guarantee it's a cliffhanger!


	5. Chapter 5

Being back at the pool was very odd. 

The warm haze of the heating systems combined with the chlorine - why did they always use so much? - meant the chemical taste clung to the back of Sherlock's throat. He checked himself as he strode to the point where he had stood, moments away from shooting at the bomb jacket which had been on John's back, all those years ago.

A flood of memories came back for the detective, and glance to his left saw those memories mirrored in his best friend's face. John gulped down, looked to Sherlock, and they proceeded to the crime scene.

"How can Moriarty be back?" Lestrade said, rubbing the back of his head again. It was almost as if he was trying to warm his own brain up.

"He's not Lestrade, stop being so dim and think, will you?" Sherlock said indignantly. He slowly crouched beside the man. Unlike the murdered woman, the man - who was laying on his front, sprawled out on the wet tiling - was dressed casually, nothing special about him whatsoever. Sherlock deduced that the man, who was in his mid-thirties, was divorced and held down manual labour, probably road-sweeping by the ingrained dirt on his fingers. He loved his football, thanks to the Arsenal FC crest on his forearm and he'd been out on the beer celebrating their win over Chelsea earlier that day. He, too, had been strangled by the looks of the marks on his neck. 

"Do you think Molly will find anything in his stomach?" John said.

"I don't know, but there's nothing else missing from Baker Street. I guess we'll find out at post mortem," Sherlock said, grabbing the corpse by the shoulder and wincing as he moved to turn him over.

"You can't do that, we've not finished our enquiries!" Greg shouted.

"I think you'll find I can, and that it will be very useful," Sherlock said, looking up. Lestrade noted the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes and a film of sweat on his brow which stuck some of his trademark curls to his skin. His lips were very pale. "Are you ok, Sherlock?" he said. 

"Perfectly fine," said Sherlock, half way through shifting the body onto its back. "You will have noticed the faint trail of blood on the tiles, mixed in with the water it's slightly less obvious. You may not have noticed, over this overwhelming chlorine stench, the faint smell of burned skin?" 

As the body fell onto its back, the message could be seen. On the man's chest, the shape of a heart, burned into the skin like a branding, festering.

"I will burn the heart out of you, that's what he said, right here," John said. "Moriarty."

"Our copycat did his research well," Sherlock admitted. He rose from his haunches. "I'll leave you with that...." he said as he turned and sloped away, quicker than he had been moving of late. John waited for the usual summons to join him, but it never came. John looked at Lestrade bemused, and then everything became clear, and chaotic, at the same time.

BANG

......

He hadn’t felt well for the last couple of days; he knew he’d overdone it, he knew he was tired and needed to stop. But he also knew that as long as he was one step behind the attacker, he would be vulnerable. 

It vexed him greatly that his transport was letting him down, especially since his weary body was making his mind follow suit. He was able to deduce much from the body by the pool, but it left him foggy of brain and heavy of breath. His instincts, however, were still razor sharp, and, as he rose from his haunches with a wince, he felt someone else, someone dangerous, was watching. Glancing up to Lestrade, he knew the DI was clueless. He turned and walked away, as quickly as his heavy legs would take him. He had to get to safety, and in turn make everyone else safe. There was no way he was going to have anyone’s blood on his hands, not least his best friend and Lestrade. 

He’d just reached the shallow end of the pool and heard the distant call of John’s voice when it happened. He knew the shot was coming, and, somehow, dropped a nano-second after the BANG rang out inside the building, dodging the bullet. Stupidly, however, he forgot his own injury in the effort of preserving his life, and fell down on his left knee and the impact sent a shockwave through his already pained side. The fall felt like it took an age but in fact everything happened too quickly, and before he knew it he’d plummeted head-first into the water.

The water felt ice-cold against his face and hands and,with his heavy coat pulling him downwards, he sank to the bottom. He floundered, disorientated, and without the benefit of having taken a gulp of air before impact, was running out of time. His shoes slipped on the tiles and his side hurt. The last oxygen in his lungs escaped him and his limbs became heavier and heavier, as the thought glanced in his mind that this could be it. As the detective gasped for a breath of water, hands grabbed under his armpits. Just in time.

...........

The sound of the gun firing sent the police officers into overdrive, their shouts echoing against the walls of the disused pool. The screams of "get down!" and "catch him!" from Lestrade became muffled background noise to John, whose eyes were fixed on the drama up ahead.

"Shit!" he cried, and with no thought of his own safety, he sprinted to the detective's aid. Lestrade and Donovan gave chase and surprisingly, it was Donovan who was first to dive in and pull him back to the surface. The feeling of air on Sherlock's face seemed to jar him back into life, though he grabbed as his breath as the pool water still lingered in his airways. He thrashed around in panic, not hearing the three voices trying to calm him down. Lestrade jumped in after, and lifted him out to the side of the pool to a panicked John, who immediately took off the wet coat and wrapped his own round him.

"Somebody call an ambulance!" he shouted.

"Nnnnooo J'hn," Sherlock slurred, trying to pat away John's doctoring hands. "Dn't wannnna."

"Listen to me Sherlock Holmes, you are going to get checked out. You hear me?" Sherlock was shivering violently, and John's heart rate rose with worry. He felt Sherlock's forehead and looked up to Lestrade and Donovan, who stood over them, dripping wet but seemingly unbothered by their own dishevelled look. "He's going to get a bloody fever," said John. "He can't afford that right now."

Through gasping breaths and chattering teeth, Sherlock pleaded. "Please...John....not....hospital....again. Just.....home..." 

"Paramedics are on their way, we'll ask their advice shall we?" John negotiated as he checked Sherlock's wound, taking off the dressings that were now soaked through and bound to cause irration thanks to the chlorine. John was upset by what he saw. His attacker really had done his work well. Around the three-inch incision was a rainbow of bruises which stretched from his armpit to his hip bone. Sherlock had not allowed John to see it since getting home, and now he knew why. But it didn't look infected, so that provided some relief. 

"Let me go home," Sherlock said, as he tried to sit up. "Don't move Sherlock or I swear to God.....look, lay on my lap, then you won't be completely on the cold floor."

John manouvered himself so Sherlock could rest his head and back on his legs, it didn't look particularly comfortable but he seemed to settle with the contact. John rubbed his friend's shoulders, and kept talking to him until the paramedics arrived. 

................

The paramedics, who arrived less than five minutes later, were confident John could look after Sherlock at home, much to the pair’s delight. John didn’t want to have him back in hospital, and Sherlock certainly didn’t want to be there. Lestrade transported them back to Baker Street, by which time Sherlock was shuddering violently from his soggy outfit, and looking pretty exhausted.

“Here you go lads,” Lestrade said, leaning back over the drivers’ seat. “Give me a call if you need anything yeah? I’m going to head back to the scene, find out where that shooter was and where he’s gone.”

“He was behind you in the balcony above, and it was a revolver,” Sherlock said, wearily. “He wasn’t a very good shot, he hit the lockers on the right hand side of me, about six foot off.”

“Well someone seriously wants you dead Sherlock. I can have officers outside here right away, in fact I think we should,” Lestrade said.

“How about Mycroft’s men?” John interjected. “The government could do something useful for once.”

“I’ll be fine John,” Sherlock said, as he opened the door. “Can we just get in? I want fresh clothes, a warm bath and a tea.”

Peeling off his shirt and trousers, Sherlock could almost see his skin twitching with cold in the mirror. He looked at the small bullet wound on his chest, barely noticeable now after a year of healing, and the angry, new, fresh and red one on his side. It was clear which assassin cared for him more, he thought. He gingerly got in the bath and relished the warm water on his skin, instantly feeling more alert, and more alive. He’d normally rush these things, no time for lounging about, but this time he allowed the bath water to cover him, and felt the tension release from his muscles.

“You OK in there Sherlock?” John said, his voice muffled through the door. “Yeah I’m fine, honestly. This warm water is nice.”

“Right, well, give me a shout when you’re getting out and I’ll redress your wound for you,” John said.

What would he do without his friend, Sherlock thought. He slid his back down the bath, the water coming over his chest, and smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy this - but I'm really to say that this is the last chapter I'll be posting for two whole weeks!! I'm off on holiday, and I'm back on May 10, when I promise there will be more to read.
> 
> I never intended to leave everyone on a cliffhanger, or leave people hanging for so long - when I originally posted, I didn't think anyone would really ready it!

Sherlock didn't sleep particularly well at the best of times but last night had to rank among the worst, he figured. Every time his dozing crept into the world of dreams, he was back in the pool, fighting to gain his composure and pull himself from the depths. He'd woken seven times, gulping for air. It got worse with every episode but rather than get up and make a tea he tried to retreat to his mind palace and look for calm.

By 7am he gave up. The light was peeking through his thin curtains, highlighting every dust mote in the air. He looked at them, playing in the morning dim, rolled onto his back and sat himself up. He was stiff this morning, though the pain from his wound was easing, he thought. A quiet day would really help it even more but he knew he didn't have that luxury. Putting on his dressing gown he strode into the silent lounge. "John?" Sherlock called. Nothing. Hmm, maybe he's gone back to Mary he thought, and he strode into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"At Tescos getting milk, J" said the note on the table. Sherlock picked it up, glanced at it, smiled and put it back down. "Back soon then," he said to himself.

And he waited. He drank his coffee, watched trashy daytime television, played a game of chess against himself, googled (perhaps unwisely) the impact of not having a spleen anymore, and between all those things sent John a series of texts asking his whereabouts. All with no reply. 

Now increasingly concerned, he paid a visit to John's empty room, neat and tidy with his overnight bag in the corner, and then text Mary, who replied saying she had heard nothing since last night, wishing her and their daughter a good night's sleep. She called shortly afterwards, panic in her voice. "I've tried calling him, his phone is off Sherlock. His phone is never off."

"It's alright Mary," Sherlock said, trying to calm his friend, John's loving wife. "I'm sure it's nothing". It wasn't nothing, Sherlock knew it. He went back to the note left on the kitchen table, and brought it to the chair, looking at it intently. He got out his magnifier, examined the handwriting. It was definitely John's; heavy ink, pressure with a right hand slant — the sign of a strong and steady character — but on closer inspection there was a wobble in the ink. The slightest waver. 

John's hands were shaking when he wrote this, he thought. His instincts took him to the fridge. There were two full bottles of semi-skimmed in the door. His stomach turned.

Sherlock contemplated calling Mary but instead dialled another number. "Lestrade it's me. John is gone."

............

 

The first thing he notices is the smell, the strong, musty and mouldy smell of damp. Then his sense of touch comes back to life, a drip of freezing water, drumming down on his head and catching his nose on the way down chills him and the rope which binds his hands together is itching and scratching him. Muffled sounds become a little sharper; in the distance the hum of traffic, the faint tweets of birdsong. It was dawn or dusk then, he guessed. He opened his eyes but there was not much to see, a chink of light coming from a tiny window illuminating nothing but a filthy wall, the rest of his new surroundings shrouded in darkness.

His head really hurt, at the back, right above the nape of his neck. It throbbed and felt warm. Though he could not check he figured it was bleeding. But how did he end up here? It took several minutes for him to become fully aware of himself.

Then, as though a light switch came on in his mind, he remembered his abduction. 

He had risen early, having not slept well thanks to Sherlock's night terrors. He had checked in on him occasionally but each time the detective had been in a dream-like state and not noticed he was there. With bleary eyes he decided on a coffee, and went to the kitchen, where he found the man. The man who had almost killed Sherlock — twice — the man who had killed two others, all in the name of Moriarty. He stopped in the doorway, raised both palms in a passive move, and asked him what he was doing. The man, who looked vaguely familiar, got up from the kitchen chair, and with gloved hands took him by the throat.

"Now, Dr Watson, you are going to write a note. And then you are coming with me," he said.

As he wrote the note, he felt the cold metal of a gun's barrel in the small of his back. His pyjama top gave little padding, so he knew exactly what he was being threatened with. The man whispered, low and steady, the instructions. He could feel the breath on the back of his neck, making the hairs stand on end. He suddenly felt cold with fear. "Don't go calling your Sherlock," said the man. "He needs a game to play, and you and me John, we're going to give it to him."

Now he was here, sitting upon a rusty old chair, in the dark, in the still, moist air, with a throbbing head and no clue of his whereabouts or what his attacker planned on doing next. All he could do was wait.

.............................

Lestrade had come to Baker Street immediately, to find Sherlock white as a sheet from fear, and Mary's face reddened with tears, her infant daughter in her arms calmly watching in silence, as if she knew not to be trouble. Sherlock was circling the lounge, the note in his hand, and Lestrade noted the panic in his pace.

"Why did I not hear anything George?" Lestrade ignored the mistake. "I should have heard something, I was waking up every hour thinking I was bloody drowining!" Sherlock's eyes were wide, the sinews in his thin neck strained.

"I don't know Sherlock, but lets try to think calmly and rationally about this. All we know about this, attacker —" Lestrade looked at Mary, as she winced at the word. "Is that he clearly wants to emulate Moriarty. So, Sherlock, what would Moriarty do?"

Mary sat straight, wiped her nose with a tissue, and then stood. "I will do what I have to Lestrade and you are not going to stop me. I didn't want my past to be a part of my future but John is my future, and I will do anything —" she glanced at Sherlock apologetically, and Sherlock acknowledged with a faint smile. "Anything to save him."

Before Lestrade could dissuade her, Sherlock snapped into lightning speech. 

"You won't have to Mary, I will deal with this. 

"Moriarty was a genius, one of a kind if you take me out of the equation," he said, low and quiet. "I very much doubt anyone could pull off his level of criminality and its clear from this attacker that his methods are crude at best. This is why I fear for John now. The principle is to break me, through John, Lestrade. I did kill Moran, I know that now. This is 'eye for an eye' stuff. He wants to play this game and he's going to lose.

"I believe this note is a clue Lestrade. John's hands are always steady under pressure, and shake when they are not. Yet this writing, John's writing, has a wobble. He did this on purpose to help me realise. Now the paper it is written on is not mine. This paper came from somewhere else Lestrade. The ink is not from a pen I own. I only own three, they are all fountain pens. This is a gel pen, probably bought from an office supplies store. We need to trace what kind of pen it is, what kind of paper this is," he thrust the note into Lestrade's hand. 

"Oh!" Sherlock suddenly said, grabbing the note back from Lestrade. He held the note to the light, rubbed it between his fingers, sniffed it, and then looked through it again. "You don't need this after all. Our attacker is a pen-pusher, a white collar worker! 

"Don't you see? Of course you don't, you're you," Sherlock added, throwing a condascending glance towards Lestrade and his colleagues. "The pen ink, from a generic ben brand, slightly scratchy, not a decent pen. Bought in bulk, Lestrade. The paper, is not expensive paper. It's not that cheap crap you get in supermarkets, but it's not top quality, not watermarked, no branding. Again bulk bought. The only places you get these things together are at a desk job. His day job is in a suit."

Sherlock sped off to the bedroom and within a couple of minutes was ready to go. "I have to go, Mary you stay here and Mrs Hudson will look after you. Lestrade, keep officers locked on this place, or call Mycroft if you must."

And with that he swung his coat on in one quick move, grabbed his scarf and skipped down the stairs. Any pain he had, was forgotten. "Where are you going Sherlock?" Lestrade called.

"Scotland Yard," he barked back.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock burst through the door like a man possessed, walking through the reception area without showing any ID, security guards trying to catch up with him as he powered his way up the stairs and to Lestrade's division.

"What are you doing, Freak," Sally Donovan said, that ever-present hint of sarcasm tailing off the end of her ever-so-predictatble sentence. "You're feeling better then, no need to thank me."

Sherlock simply thrust the palm of his hand in her face as he barged past. He looked like a hunting dog, seeking out an unsuspecting and vulnerable fox. His head jerked in all directions as he scanned the room, the grey, dull panels separating each officer and clerk from one another. High privacy...isolation. 

He put his fingers to his temples, took a deep breath, and then grabbed Donovan by the arm and dragged her into Lestrade's office. Anderson, seeing this, scuttled from his dingy corner of the open plan room to nose.

"The man who attacked me, the man who has taken John, the man who killed those people. He is in this office," Sherlock said, under hushed tones.

"What? Now?" Donovan asked, unconvinced. "You're being ridiculous."

"Oh so you've never heard of a bad guy in the police then, hmm?" Sherlock said, incredulous. "Come on Donovan I had you down as stupid but that's just taking idiocy to a whole new level. Think!"

"Everyone in this office has had a full criminal check on them, Lestrade insists on regular screening, and we've all signed consent forms to do so. I don't see how someone within this division could be capable..."

Lestrade had followed Sherlock out of Baker Street and barged into his own office. "What the hell do you think you're doing Sherlock? You can't just walk in here!"

"Think you'll find I just did. Your killer is here, Graham."

And again, he ignored the mistake. "And what clever spark gave you that impression? The note?"

"ALL the messages. Think about it. Office stationary, no insignia, mass purchased pens and paper. The other deaths, the messages, Lestrade. Who else knew about burning hearts out? Who else knew about Westwood? Statements, Lestrade. The only place it's recorded is in my mind palace, John's head, and statements. It never got to the media. Your bloody statements."

Lestrade stood, open-mouthed. "What do we do?"

"We wait," Sherlock said. "We cannot let this office know what's going on. Whoever is doing this will move John to a new location, we must let them believe they're still ahead of me."

.........

The first message appeared on Sherlock's phone at 8pm that night. Mary was sitting in John's chair, wrapped in a blanket and staring into the distance, trembling hands screwed up against her mouth. Sherlock found it hard to comfort her, save for making endless cups of tea, or at least getting Mrs Hudson to make it on his behalf and then take the credit.

Sherlock was tapping a rhythm on the arm of his chair, combining with the crackling of the fire to make a gentle background tune, when his phone buzzed. Mary sat upright, worry etched on her face as she watched the colour drain from Sherlock's face, as he held the phone up, slowly.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Give me a minute," he said, a quiver in his voice. He got up, strode to his bedroom and shut the door. 

"Don't do that Sherlock, what's wrong," Mary said, banging on the door. "I swear I will kick this door down if I have to."

"You don't want to see this, I'm protecting you," Sherlock said quietly. "Trust me on this, ok?"

Mary's heart skipped several beats, in fact it felt like it had dropped to the pit of her stomach. If her hands were trembling before, they were shaking violently now. She leant against the wall and slid down to the floor, sobbing. On the other side of the door, Sherlock was sitting in the same position, unable to take his eyes off the image in front of him. It showed John, gagged and bound, beaten, bruised, and barely conscious, with three letters carved into his chest. 

It said I O U.

..............

John had been sitting, prone, for hours. He drew on all his army training to calm himself, preserve his energy by slowing his heart rate down, an then observe as much as possible. When he came to, he remembered the birdsong and traffic noises, and light. And here it was again. So it must have been morning when he woke, and now the sun was going down. He had been there a whole day and nothing had happened. It struck him as odd, and it sent the fear through his chilled bones. 

It was fully dark when he encountered the man again. He hard the heavy clunk of an old key turning through a lock, before the creak of the door opening, and the shadow of him appearing on the floor in front. The man, who was wearing a disposable white boiler suit, flicked on a switch, powering a small and dim light in the centre of the room. For the first time, John could see where he was, and it was then he had wished he had been kept in the dark. The room was vile. Filthy, mould-covered walls and furniture, fire damage in the corner, and a table, with a grimy sheet atop it, covered in rusty tools. His stomach turned as he realised they could be intended for him. They weren't there for show.

"So, Dr Watson. Your friend came and paid me a visit today. Well, sort of. He's working things out, so I think we should play our next move." The man picked up a hammer. "This?" he said, before putting it down and picking up a Stanley knife. "Or this?" 

John said nothing, just gulping and bracing for whatever was coming his way. 

"You not talking to me then? But I like your voice...." the man approached him, and used the knife to cut John's shirt open by slicing off the buttons, one by one. "Let's hear it now, shall we?"

As the man began to cut into his chest, it took all of John's energy not to scream. He would not give in. The slicing motion, the heat of the knife cutting into his skin and the warmth of the blood as it trickled down his stomach, made him feel sick. When the man had finished, he looked John so closely in the eyes their noses were almost touching. The man's breath lingered over his face, moistening it. "You will talk with me Dr Watson, you will tell me all about your friend, and you will help me play this game."

John did not blink once. He spat in the man's face. "Fuck you" he said. He saw the man's fist rise, and then nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock did not sleep at all that night. He sat in his chair, staring at the wall. The wall where all his cases were plotted out. This time though, just two pieces of paper were pinned to the old wallpaper. A picture of John, and a map of London and surrounding counties. In his hand, his phone. Every so often, once he had steeled himself, he would look down at it. It never got any easier to see his dearest friend in such a state. Sentiment was getting in the way of his thoughts.  
  
 _This is what he wants!_ he thought. _Jesus Sherlock, get a grip. Take the case._  
  
Sherlock put a pin at Scotland Yard. Whoever was doing this, clocked off at 6pm, at the latest. The text was sent at 8pm, the torture would not have been quick. He looked again at the picture. All the wounds looked fresh, they had been done just before the text was sent, he was sure of it. The blood was crimson and glistening in the dim light. The attacker would have taken at least an hour.   
  
Sherlock considered what would take an hour to get to, from Scotland Yard, during the rush. Not far, he surmised. He guessed at a five-mile radius...perhaps conservative, but it was a start. He looked at the photo again, but this time drew his eyes away from John's mutilated chest. Mould-covered concrete floor, wet, dim light highlighting thick dust. Wherever John was, it wasn't somewhere nice. It reminded him of the crack den he'd infiltrated for the Magnussen case. Without the graffiti. He shook his head, wishing Molly had been there to slap him back into the land of the living.  
  
It was 3am, but he text Lestrade anyway, recommending possible search sites around the radius. There were a few disused buildings Sherlock knew of, one in Brixton, the other near Haringey, and a few more in Deptford.  
  
When he didn't get a reply five minutes later, Sherlock could stand it no longer. He went and got dressed, put on his coat, and walked out the door. He wasn't prepared to wait. He needed to finish the game.  
  
In the still of the night, the London night, the rain fell steadily. In this corner of town, there was little sign of life. A couple of corner shops had their lights on ready for the day's trade, but the rest of the streets' outlets were shuttered down, covered in graffiti, dilapidated. Tourists would not come here readily, and neither would Sherlock if he didn't have the sinking feeling his friend was in the vicinity.  
  
He had grabbed a taxi close to Marylebone station, none passing his door at 221b, and, with either end of the city in mind -  the Brixton and Deptford areas in the south, and Haringey in the north - he had plumped for the latter. It was the right side of the river, and less bothered by central London police patrols. Fewer bobbies would be on the beat here, it was easier to hide.  
  
The rain was falling heavy now but Sherlock did not feel it. All he cared about, all he was focused on, was finding John. He walked the streets for an indeterminate amount of time, looking into every empty shop, peering through the depressing metal shutters on every repossessed home, but by the time he had trawled the worst corners of the area and found nothing, it was clear daylight and schoolchildren were making their way to the local comprehensive.   
  
Sherlock suddenly felt a chill run through his bones. Cold and exhausted, he grabbed a taxi back to Baker Street. To start the whole process all over again.  
  
..............  
  
It was freezing. Cold, damp, uncomfortable. Painful. John gingerly raised his chin from his chest, his neck stiff with the cold and having been bent down all night. He was left beaten and exhausted by his ordeal at the hands of the attacker, and he had tried to stay awake, knowing he had likely suffered a concussion from the previous night. But darkness overtook him and before long he had slipped into a deep, almost coma-like sleep, which had granted him some reprieve from the pain of his bleeding chest, but had opened up a whole new world of disturbing nightmares. As he came to, he wondered how Sherlock had coped in Serbia. _What would he do?_   he thought. He knew he would have retreated to his mind palace. Which John didn't have the luxury of possessing. All he had was his military and medical training, a heart full of love for his family, and faith in his friend to find him.   
  
Once again he heard birdsong, once again he heard traffic. And this time the faint sounds of boat fog horns. He was near the Thames, he had to be. Which meant he was not far from home, from his wife, his baby girl, and his friend.

His cell was silent. He waited.  
  
........................  
  
Sherlock got back to Baker Street to find Mary frantically pacing the floor of the lounge.   
  
"Where the hell have you been? I thought you had been taken too for God's sake!".   
  
"It's alright Mary, I am here," Sherlock said, grabbing Mary's hand tenderly. "I was out looking for John and - "  
  
"Is there no news? Please Sherlock I'm going out of my mind here..... you're cold."  
  
Sherlock ignored Mary's concerned ending. "Mary, trust me. I am doing all I can, the police are, as far as I know, working hard on it. Even Mycroft is involved now." Mycroft's men had been watching the movements of all the staff in Lestrade's division since yesterday. Although nothing had come from that yet, which concerned Sherlock greatly.   
  
"Go get yourself changed Sherlock, you're soaked through. I'll make you a tea."  
  
Sherlock took that order and ran with it. The weight of his Belstaff had gained considerably overnight, and now it felt like it was dragging him downwards. He passed Mrs Hudson, who had John and Mary's daughter in her arms, and rubbed her shoulder. Both women noted the detective's tactile gestures, and looked at one another with small smiles.  
  
Sherlock took his coat off and let it drop to the floor, kicked off his shoes, peeled off the soggy shirt and trousers underneath and sat on the bed. He looked at his phone to find a text from Lestrade, telling him he had put teams in the areas he had suggested. He dialled.  
  
"Lestrade, don't bother with Haringey I think that's out of the picture. I think we're looking south of the river. Where are you?"  
  
"I'm at Scotland Yard at the moment, want me to come over?"  
  
"No I'll be with you shortly."  
  
Sherlock hung up, walked over to the wardrobe and redressed. He had no time to wait for his coat to dry. He wrapped his scarf round his neck, walked back out to the lounge and kissed Mary on the forehead.  
  
"I've got to do all I can to get John back," he said. "Hold the tea."  
  
"Thank you Sherlock," came the quiet reply. And with that, he was back out of the door.  
  
....................  
  
It was a very grey day in London. The rain was unrelenting, a fine mist which clung to every fibre, every inch of skin, swirling around in a winter wind which whipped up the remainder of the autumn leaves and left them dancing in the air.  
  
After getting a taxi to somewhere near New Scotland Yard — he hadn't noticed where, only that the traffic had been stationary for 15 minutes at least — Sherlock got out and began walking. He dug his chin into his scarf, breathing through the cashmere to create some kind of warmth against the elements. His hands were driven deep in to the pockets of his trousers, and he noted the start of a shudder running through his shoulders. After his night walking around Haringey, without even stopping for a brew to thaw out, here he was, back out on the streets and this time without the protective armour of his trusty coat.  
  
By the time he had reached the police headquarters, his suit was wet through and cold and his hair glistened with the dew drops which had settled there. He was grateful to get inside, but he was too interested in reaching Lestrade to think about his transport, which by his own deductions, was giving all the hints of breaking down on him again.  
  
Walking out of the lift to Lestrade's division, heads turned and followed his drenched form as he made his way to the DI's office.  
  
"You look like shit!" Lestrade said. "What the hell are you doing out?"  
  
He was just about to order him to return home to his bed for rest when Sherlock bluntly cut him off.  
  
"How long have you been looking for him? When did you get my text?"  
  
"When I woke up, Sherlock, I'm sorry. We had teams go out at 9am this morning, they've not found anything yet."  
  
"I think we have ten hours before I get another one of these."  
  
Sherlock presented Lestrade with his phone, the picture of John on the front of it. Lestrade took a step back, sharply breathing in and putting his hand over his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me this had happened?"  
  
"It was for my eyes only Lestrade, this is the next part of the game. Trouble is, it offers me nothing except the knowledge that John is alive, but in immense pain. I cannot deduce anything from it, except that it's clearly in some disused factory or basement somewhere. I thought perhaps he would have stayed north of the river, where the crime rates are slightly lower and therefore he would be less likely to get caught. But I spent all night searching and found nothing.  
  
"The only thing I am fairly sure of is that his attacker does this after he has finished work. Hence the ten-hour time frame." Sherlock's words softened at the end, with a sigh he couldn't stop.  
  
"Sherlock you must be exhausted, and freezing. It was hammering down last night. Hey, where's your coat?"  
  
"Back at Baker Street, it was soaked through."  
  
"But you'll catch your death mate. You need to look after yourself."  
  
"I don't see that it's important right now. We have to find John."  
  
"But how, if we've nothing to go on? We're searching but the odds of finding him aren't high, are they?"  
  
"I think we are going to have to wait until tonight."  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been a bit liberal here, with little/no medical knowledge I know I've probably got plot holes in this chapter and in forthcoming chapters.
> 
> But hey, we're here, nothing's entirely accurate, so hope you enjoy anyway!!!

Sherlock had stayed with Lestrade for the best part of an hour, looking at maps of the city, pinpointing possible areas of interest and looking back at the rest of the incidents to see if either of them could identify The Intruder. Lestrade became increasingly frustrated and took it out on the bin, while Sherlock sat quietly, desperately trawling through his mind palace not only to pick up clues but also to block out the violent chills which had now crept into his bones and would not leave. He had managed to stifle the shivers and not show Lestrade any weakness for so long, but eventually he knew he would be found out, and made a quick departure, telling the DI that he would be able to work better at home.  
  
He walked back up the thoroughfare to the main road, in the rain again, and felt the tension rise in his shoulders, and the pain rise in his side. He was exhausted, he knew it, but he would not rest until he had found his best friend. Hailing a cab, he clambered in the back and fell into the seat far harder than even he had expected. "Baker Street," he slurred. The cabbie looked in his rear view. "You pissed? Cause you can get out now if you are, it's not even lunchtime yet!   
  
"No m'not, just....just Baker Street." Sherlock could hear his mouth was not co-operating with his brain, and gritted his teeth. The cabbie turned to look over his shoulder and saw Sherlock's face. Even to a complete stranger he looked a mess. "Oh," he said, with instantly realising eyes. "Best get you home then lad."  
  
Sherlock paid the man, who had kept him talking with chat about Tottenham Hotspur and their terrible season. Sherlock had initially muted him out but then realised he was actually trying to help, and appreciated it. Bending over to climb out the back, Sherlock felt an ache in his kidneys and all up his side. In fact, his whole body ached like he had run a marathon. As he stumbled heavily to the pavement outside, the cabbie called after him. "Hope you feel better soon lad, you take care." Sherlock noted the cabbie's kindness, then refocused his energies on getting back indoors.  
  
He gripped the bannister as he came up the stairs, each one feeling steeper and steeper, only to be met by a shocked Mary at the top.  
  
"Sherlock what's happened, you look like you've run a marathon out there."  
  
Sherlock smiled at the irony, and staggered past her. "You're burning up, I can feel it from here Sherlock!"  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
"You're a terrible liar Sherlock, you know better than to mess with me," Mary said, putting her hand on his forehead. It felt freezing to Sherlock, who knew the situation but was still choosing to ignore it.  
  
"You're not leaving here again, you'll have to let the police take over now," she said, a hint of sadness in her voice as even she knew that gave John an even slimmer chance. "I don't think I could bear to lose you too."  
  
Sherlock looked up and feigned a smile. He would defy her later. For now though, he needed tea and sleep.  
  
.........................  
  
His dreams were troubled, twisted. They flitted from place to place, from ice cold rivers to the searing heat of the desert, from swimming with whales to flying in hot air balloons, to John laughing in his face, to Molly's face contorted in pain, to Molly slapping him, Anderson laughing at him, Lestrade replacing Mycroft as his brother. Faces were familiar, but roles were swapped. It was all so confusing.  
  
"Sherlock"  
  
He heard his name being called. He couldn't work out from where.   
  
"Sherlock you need to wake up."  
  
He followed the sound of the voice. It was kind, gentle.   
  
Mary sat at Sherlock's side, a cool, damp cloth in hand, dabbing the detective's forehead and sodden hair. He had stirred slightly from his deep and troubled slumber. Mary had left him in peace until he heard the man cry out, and opened the door to find him wrapped in his sheets, and clearly in distress.   
  
"You need to drink something, take your drugs Sherlock, come on now, wake up."  
  
Mary watched as Sherlock opened his eyes but they were unfocused, looking in a different direction, searching. She raised his head tenderly, pouring a small amount of water into his mouth, which he took. The next mouthful, she included his painkiller, and he struggled to get it down, but gulped it eventually. It was slow, and painful to watch frankly. Sherlock was a mess. He was on fire, but shivering violently, deep in a fever which would almost certainly hospitalise him if it got any worse.  
  
"Mary... John.... must," Sherlock managed, before Mary had put a thermometer under his tongue. "Don't bite down on it love, I need to know your temperature."  
  
Sherlock did not protest. "It's 38.3 Sherlock, not good at all. Any higher and we'll have to get you in hospital."  
  
"Shower," Sherlock slurred. The more Mary spoke to him the more lucid he became, the more he knew that, despite his shivering, he needed to cool. He needed to get better. For John.  
  
...............  
  
The dim light got dimmer as the day drew to a close. John had watched the path of the light shard from the tiny window move across the room. With time on his hands and no way of escape, he had spent the day praying. Praying for his escape and safety, praying for his wife and child, praying Sherlock was ok and would find him, praying the pain would stop, praying infection would not set in. He had no idea what was going on in the outside world, indeed he had no clue where he was, save for the shipping traffic, the sound of cars and the birds. The birds began tweeting again and sounded an alarm for the doctor as he realised his attacker would not be far away by now.  
  
His prediction was eerily accurate, as within minutes he heard shuffled footsteps, then the clunk of the lock, and the sight of the man, boiler suit donned, but this time with a video camera in his hand.  
  
"Let's make a little movie today, shall we? I always like those horror films, like The Human Centipede...you seen it?"  
  
John stared at the man blankly, his lips pursed together tightly.  
  
"Ah don't worry, we won't be sewing your mouth to anyone's arse in a hurry. But we will be spreading a little horror to your friend. To your wife."  
  
A chill swept through John's body.  
  
"Let's begin then. Action."

...................  
  
  
With their daughter being cared for by Mrs Hudson, Mary called the only other person she thought could help.  
  
"Hi is this Molly? Hi it's Mary, look can you get to Baker Street right away? I need your help, your opinion. Will you? Great, can you be here as soon as possible? We don't have much time, I don't think."  
  
She waited for what felt like an eternity by Sherlock's side, but what was actually only ten minutes. Thankfully Molly had had the foresight to think of Sherlock's lack of spleen, deduce what Mary needed and bring it with her. However, though Molly had been practical in her preparation, her emotions got the better of her when she saw the poor detective, barely awake and struggling so much, all over again.   
  
"Oh god," she said, putting her hand over her mouth. "He has to get his temperature down, what are we gonna do?"  
  
"He said shower just a minute ago, will it help?" Mary said. "Will it be enough?"  
  
"As long as its not too cold, and not hot, obviously. We have to try to move him."  
  
The two women struggled to move Sherlock, his body limp and unresponsive. Mary took him under his shoulders, Molly grabbed his legs, and the pair shuffled him through to the bathroom. Molly had already run a bathful of room temperature water, and so they lowered him in. Sherlock's shivers became violent shudders, and his face contorted as the cold water seared his skin. Mary held him down in the water, but with soft hands and softer words, while Molly cupped her hands with water and poured it over his hair.   
  
"This has to work, Molly. Has to," Mary said with concern. "He's my only hope."  
  
Sherlock, through chattering teeth, just kept saying one word after that.  
  
"John."  
  
............  
  
After the bath, came the troublesome problem of getting the poor man out, getting him dry and getting him changed. His pyjamas were soaked through, and the boxers had to go as well in favour of a dry pair. That led to major blushing on Molly's part but practicality on Mary's. The mother instinct had well and truly kicked in, and she bypassed any embarassment to tend to Sherlock's needs. They lifted him back into bed, and Mary took his temperature again.   
  
"37.8 now, a small improvement," Mary said with a sigh. Molly looked over in approval, as she set up an IV for him, containing the fluids and antibiotics he so desperately needed.   
  
"Now he has no spleen I am going to need to take a blood sample back to St Bart's to make sure he has no infection, because if that's a case I'm afraid he's going to need to go to hospital Mary. His body isn't producing antibodies any more," Molly explained. She took the blood and then inserted the cannula, before stroking Sherlock's face, and then stroking Mary's arm. "We'll get him right, infection or not. He'll fight for John, he'll find him."  
  
Within a half hour, Sherlock had stilled. His breathing was less panicked and he just appeared to be in a deep sleep. He was still sweating, but it was cooling, he wasn't burning any more. The antibiotics were working quickly and that, together with the fluids, seemed to be really helping.  
  
Helping enough, that the two women felt confident to retire to the lounge for a much-needed and a brew.  
  
A few hours later, while the two ladies were mindlessly watching the television, trying to bring a sense of normality to the world, Sherlock's phone began to beep from the bedroom. Mary knew Sherlock was in no position to answer calls or text, but no one knew he was in such a bad way.   
  
"Shall I go get it?" Mary said. "I mean, what if it's something important?"  
  
"If the tables were turned I think Sherlock would do it," Molly said. "Go on, get it."  
  
Mary walked through to the bedroom, picked up the phone and brought it back to the kitchen table. She was almost scared to see what was waiting in the text. What if it was bad news?  
  
She opened the message with shaking hands, and the pair sat in stunned horror as they witnessed the video.   
  
Mary screamed.   
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So things are starting to gather a bit of pace, again I'm being liberal with what's possible, this is my first ever fic so go gentle!
> 
> Just hope you all enjoy it :)

The deafening, sickening, sound jolted Sherlock awake. His eyes searched the room for the source of the noise. What was it? Was it a fox? No, it was human, he worked out through his clouded mind. It had to be bad news. His heart rate rose, his stomach turned. 

He called Mary's name, but his voice croaked, he could barely hear himself. He tried to sit himself up, taking his time to raise himself onto his elbows, then onto his hands. God he ached, so much, from his bones out to the nerves on his skin. As he rose he caught his IV line which stung. Where was she?

"M...Mary" he called again, a little louder this time. He swung his legs round and touched the floor with his feet, and, grabbing onto the pole connecting him to the IV, he rose, shakily, to something resembling a standing position. Bloody transport.

The door opened and a face he didn't expect to see looked at him through tear-filled eyes. 

"Molly what's wrong," he managed, letting out a pained sigh at the end. 

"It's John, Sherlock, there's been another message to your phone."

Sherlock staggered towards her and, instead of ordering him back to bed, she grabbed his elbow and gripped his forearm, helping him through to the lounge. It took all his effort to get there, but he was determined. In front of him, rocking back and forth in John's chair, as if comforting herself, was Mary, her face reddened and shining through a flood of tears. Mrs Hudson was rocking the baby in the kitchen, trying to reassure the child who heard the panic in her mother's voice and had joined her in pained sobbing.

"Take her downstairs Mrs Hudson, she's a perceptive child. She needs to sense no more," Sherlock said, quietly. "Thank you," he added.

"Mary I need to see it, give me my phone," he said, offering out a shaking hand. When she refused to let go, Molly took it from her, gently. "It's ok Mary," she said. "Sherlock needs to see this."

He looked at the phone, and tapped the play button on the screen. What followed was three minutes of footage.

"Now Mr Holmes, seeing as I haven't been able to kill you yet, I intend to break you in the mean time." said the distorted voice. The camera zoomed in on John's chest. "This little man is going to pay for your indiscretions. Why did you kill him, Sherlock? He was my hero! He was a genius, he had the world in his hands, and you ruined that! He had it right! He was brilliant, he had control. Oh to have control.....you know how that feels, don't you..." the camera panned out, showing John looking beaten, physically and emotionally. His head was bowed, refusing to look at the camera. 

A long stick appeared in the bottom of the screen. John convulsed as the man poked him with it, thousands of volts careering through his body. Sherlock flinched.

"How will you keep a cool head, Sherlock? How will you keep control, if you don't have your trusty sidekick eh? And the more I hurt him. The more I hurt you, the more that control is slipping away......If he's gone, Sherlock, you may as well give up!"

John, slumped in the chair, mumbled in the background. Sherlock strained to hear him.

"This time tomorrow, Sherlock, will John still be alive? It's up to you now."

The camera jerked and moved swifly away from John, and to the floor. Another cry was heard, and then black.

.....................

Focus, Sherlock. Focus.

He felt like shit, but he didn't have time for self-pity, rest or healing. John didn't have time, 24 hours at the maximum. There would be plenty of time afterwards for all of that.

Despite Molly's protests, Sherlock detached himself from the IV and, using the wall for support made it back to the bedroom to get dressed. 

"You're in no fit state now Sherlock, please just listen to me," Molly pleaded. 

Sherlock, giving up on putting on his socks momentarily, turned to the pathologist and spoke slowly. "Molly, if you know me at all you'll know I'm not going to just sit here and wait. John will die and I can't let that happen. I made a promise to both of them. It's the only vow I've ever made - the only one I will make. You have to help me Molly."

Molly shook her head. "How can I help you this time?"

"Remember our day working together. It's going to go a little bit like that. Don't bother taking notes. Just bring all of that," he said, pointing weakly to the medical bag sitting in the corner of the bedroom. He started to try to get dressed again but his body continued to betray him.

"Here, give me those," said Molly, gesturing towards the socks, and she helped him dress. It wasn't particularly dignifying, Sherlock thought, but it was time-saving, so he did not protest.

"Thank you Molly Hooper," he said, as she buttoned up his suit jacket. "Remind me to thank you properly another time, won't you?" 

Molly blushed a little. "That's the fever still talking," she said with a nervous giggle. "So where are we going?"

"We need to get back to Scotland Yard, that video is full of clues. I need to see it again, I need to unscramble that voice."

..............

It was pushing midnight when the two of them got to Scotland Yard. Sherlock had called Lestrade and asked him to be there and sure enough, the ever-dependable man was waiting at the door for them. "Fucking hell Sherlock, you should be in hospital!"

"It's nice to see you too Greg."

Woah, he got my name right. There really must be something wrong with him, thought Lestrade. "Seriously Sherlock...."

"Greg he'll be fine," Molly said, giving Lestrade a kind of "shut up" face. Sherlock's arm was wrapped around Molly's shoulder for support, her head nestled in his armpit, such was her petite height. He was leaning on her far too much, and she was huffing with the effort. Lestrade noted it and took over duties, helping Sherlock inside and to the lift. When they got to division, the lanky detective slumped in the first available seat, clearly exhausted. 

"You're soaked through Sherlock, and it's not raining any more," Lestrade said. 

"Good deduction," Sherlock said, panting. "Antibiotics are starting to kick in though. And I certainly wouldn't be here if I didn't need to. I've had another message."

The three of them watched Sherlock's phone again, silently. It never got easier to watch. Molly cried again and Lestrade reached. 

They wired it up to the voice unscrambling machine to get a clear audio of the attacker's voice, which they stored on a separate file. Sherlock tried to focus on the surroundings again, searching desperately for a tell on John's whereabouts. Then he heard John's mumbles again. "Can we pick out his voice," Sherlock said. "He's sending a message I know it."

"Should be able to," Lestrade said, fiddling with the mixers on the computer screen until all they could hear was John's strained breaths.

Through them, they heard three tiny words. "Birds", "river" and "traffic"

Sherlock's head shot up, a spark lighting beneath his fever-glazed eyes. "Birds"

"Lestrade, he would only mention those if they were unusual. We all hear pigeons, its not significant. He heard birds."

"I don't understand."

"And here we are again," Sherlock's temper was short. "If he had heard pigeons he would have said pigeons. So they aren't pigeons, are they? London isn't a particular hotbed for anything else, but I know there's a protected colony of Black Restarts in the Deptford area, one of the places I said he might be. We need to go right away."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, then at Molly, and then back to Sherlock. He wondered whether the young man in front of him had made the right call. If they dedicated resources and precious time to an assumption made by a man whose judgement was almost undoubtedly impaired by the raging fever attacking his body, John would be dead. But then again, it was all they had to go on.

"Come on then," he said, and he took Sherlock's arm around his shoulder again and back to the lift.

.........................

Lestrade made some calls, moving the specialist teams which had been scanning the Brixton area round to Deptford. The old industrial area had been a base for many a construction and boat-building company over the years. If you took a black and white photo of it, it would look like it had been taken during the Industrial Revolution. It was that kind of place. Worn down, grimy, hardened and tired. 

As he drove, he could see through his rear view mirror Sherlock and Molly scanning a map of the area. Molly had her phone out, googling possible sites of interest to speed up the process, and frankly, give the detective some subtle help along the way. It was clear he was struggling to focus, whatever was attacking his system was affecting his abilities, and he was growing ever more frustrated. All Molly could do was reassure the man, without sounding patronising, and hint at places by sneaking a look on her smartphone. He liked Molly. Very much.

Sherlock's eyes were all over the place, from being shut in concentration to flitting across the map to looking out the windows, the desperation etched on his face, which was pale, and had a sheen of sweat across it. He was shivering again, and Molly took his temperature again. "It's back up to 38 Sherlock, we are going to have to get you home soon."

"No time," he said, repeating himself several times over. 

They eventually pulled up dockside, meeting the rest of the force in a disused wharf, away from public sight. Donovan met Lestrade at the car. 

"I hope you don't mind but I have enlisted the help of our archivist to help narrow down the buildings we will likely need to search," she said, tailing off as she saw Molly rush round to Sherlock's side of the car, and help him out. "Frea......Sherlock are you all right?"

"No he's not Donovan but he's determined to see this through and I'm not prepared to stop him. Molly is here taking as much care as she can," Lestrade said, leaning in and whispering; "Bring two ambulances to this point, have them ready for any evenutality please." Donovan understood. "On it straight away boss."

The disused wharf hangar was a hive of activity, officers preparing weapons and battle plans for all kinds of scenarios. Under cover of darkness they knew it would work best, and so decisions on what buildings to raid had to be made quickly. 

Sherlock, seemingly clinging onto Molly for dear life, looked at the scene in front of him. "Let's go," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

Molly looked up at the face she had loved for so long. She never meant to fall for him, all those years ago. She had not long qualified as a pathologist and was delighted to get her job at St Bart's so soon after leaving university. She was so nervous when she walked through those doors on her first day, so eager to impress her new bosses, and show off the skills she had learned so well. But she was thrown completely when she saw the slender figure of a man sitting at a microscope. His dark curls framed a face she could only describe as being sent from the angels. She flushed instantly. Over the years she had never failed to fall under his hollow charms, patiently waiting in the hope that one day, her love for him would be mirrored in his face. 

On this night, under these circumstances, she had never loved or cared for him more. And he needed her. 

"Sherlock, we have to stay close to the police, you know you're not doing well, you know this is ridiculous," she said, apology lacing her words. 

"Do you trust me?" he said, quietly. Molly looked intently back. "Molly you have to trust me. I need to look without all that," he nodded his head towards the police's makeshift headquarters. "I can't afford distractions."

Molly looked at the scene, looked back at Sherlock, so weak and sick, and back at the police. She saw Donovan preparing weapons with a group of officers, Lestrade barking orders around, organising the horde.

"Ok," she said. "But we need to get fluids to you first, there's a 24-hour store around the corner." She adjusted herself to become a proper support for the detective, standing to his right, wrapping her right arm round his waist. His left side felt very warm, warmer than the rest of him which was alarming. This was not good. She got her phone out of her pocket and, without Sherlock noticing - he wasn't paying attention on anything apart from putting one foot in front of the other - she slyly text Mary. 

"It's Molly. Call Mycroft and get blood sample tested quickly. Think fever is infection."

.........................

Beep. Beep. Beep. "Please place your items in the bagging area."

He heard the distant sounds of checkout robots through the din of the supermarket's refrigerators and freezers, humming away to keep cheap microwave meals cool. He barely opened his eyes as Molly led him round, the light too bright, hurting his eyes and head. 

"What are we doing here? John won't be here."

"No we are going to find John, Sherlock, we're just stopping for supplies."

"I don't want anything, I will be sick."

"You feel sick?"

"Hmmmmph"

In truth he had felt nauseous since leaving the flat, he just put it down as a side effect of the drugs Molly had given him. But as they wore off, the nausea grew. Water ran in his mouth, his empty stomach was churning.

"You need a drink, I'm going to get you some Powerade, it's got sugar and electrolytes to help rehydrate you." She picked up three bottles of bright blue liquid, and led Sherlock to the self service. "Hold onto me while I pay for these," she said. 

Leading him outside, she leaned him against a wall, and helped him sip the liquid. As soon as the drink hit his mouth, he clamoured for it, realising his thirst. It tasted sickly sweet, but good. "Don't gulp it Sherlock, rushing won't help," he heard. He heeded the call, taking one mouthful at a time, taking a break between each one. He heard the reassuring words of Molly as he did it, and momentarily felt like his temperature was normal. He would drink this stuff more.

Molly's phone buzzed. She discreetly looked and was relieved to hear it was Mary, who confirmed Mycroft had the blood and a result would be back within the hour. Time was of the essence, time wasn't just running out for John.

........................... 

Gunfire, shouting, searing heat, panic, pain, loss, adrenaline, horror. All things John knew well, too well. They had plagued his dreams for many a year, making him wake each night with an anguished cry, a sweaty brow and a racing heart. 

Now all he had was black. Thick, mouldy, damp, black. He had come round from the last torture session and opened his eyes, with no change in light. For a moment he thought perhaps he was dead, and this was all that was left. The dark. The nothing. But with the pain coursing through his body, he knew he was still here. Alive. 

He had no idea of the time, only that it was very still, too still. He heard nothing. It was a complete sensory deprivation. And it was making him scared. He had been in dangerous situations many times before, thanks to the military and moreso thanks to Sherlock. But with Sherlock by his side, he always knew it would be ok. Now, alone, and freezing cold, he was petrified. 

It was cold this night, and his bare chest bore the goosebumps to prove it. As the minutes and hours passed, the icy air bore itself into his bones, and when the cramp set into his neck and shoulders, he had had enough. Everything hurt, breathing hurt, even thinking hurt. The pain grew alongside the cold and, combined with the fear, tipped him over the edge. He sobbed hysterically, pained cries echoing off the walls and back to him. No one would hear him, no one would find him. 

All was lost.

..................................

Lestrade had been busy instructing teams to scan old factories along the dock, dividing the officers into teams of four, and giving specific code words to each one to be relayed back to the wharf. Donovan had been co-ordinating with local authorities and health services for public safety. There was a real sense of anticipation in the air, nerves even, as the moment of possible truth neared.

It was 3am when Lestrade returned to his car to relay all his preparations to Sherlock, but when he got there he found the door open, and no-one inside. He had told Molly to keep Sherlock there, for rest and for his own safety — if he took a downward turn Lestrade could have raced him to hospital if necessary.

"Shit! Donovan!" he shouted. Donovan looked up "Yes sir?"

"You seen Sherlock, or Molly for that matter?"

"No not for a while, I've been busy."

"Shit shit shit," Lestrade put his hands to his head, rubbing his short grey hair in frustration. "They've bloody disappeared. He's gone to look for John himself, the bastard!"

"He could jeopardise the whole mission," Donovan said. "He does my head in."

"I'm not bothered about the mission, we will find John no matter what," Lestrade answered, angrily. "It's him I'm worried about. I could be wrong but I think he's in serious trouble."

"Listen, sir, I will lead this. You go concentrate on finding him. He can't have gone far can he, not if he's as ill as you say he is."

"You saw it for yourself, at least you should have done!" Lestrade snapped. "Sorry, no, you're probably right, I'll go out and find him."

Lestrade jumped in the car, and gripped the steering wheel. Why had he done this, he thought. Why would Sherlock sneak off alone, when so weak and, dare he say it, dependant? He closed his eyes and thought long and hard about the reasoning. Sherlock's body was letting him down but his mind was, to a degree, still sharp. Perhaps he needed a clear head, no distractions? Distractions, noises and orders coming from other people, gameplans and methodical approach — all the things Sherlock fought against. He got back out the car and began to walk. He had to put himself in Sherlock's shoes right now. Not that he had a mind palace. But maybe he could try, just try, to be Sherlock for a moment.  
He stood outside the hangar, and looked at the map of the area that he had loaded on his phone. He considered the buildings on the shortlist, and remembered Sherlock's words, "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Ok, so three dockside factories to start, Lestrade thought. Each almost identical, one a former paper mill, one a former textiles factory and the other a construction tools manufacturer. By the river, but by the traffic? He needed to listen for real proof. He turned right and headed towards the dock.


	12. Chapter 12

"Stop here Molly," Sherlock said, through chattering teeth. He felt absolutely freezing, like he'd been one of those ready meals in the supermarket fridges. Black dots swam across his vision; he was dizzy and he was oh so grateful for Molly's presence.

"Sherlock you're really hot now, I have to take my coat off. Can you stand alone for a moment?" she said, huffing and puffing. Sherlock was getting heavier. "N...no.. I can't."  
Concern was etched on Molly's face. "Ok we will have to sit you down somewhere, come on."

"N..no. Said stop here."

"Why?"

"Have...to...listen."

The pair were stood about 100 metres from the gated entrance of a huge old factory, a smoke stack climbing high into the skyline, broken windows and ivy growing up its walls. It was a sorry sight of a building, a shadow of its glory days, and pretty scary under the overcast night sky. Molly, still practically holding the detective up, waited as Sherlock closed his eyes and dipped his chin into his scarf.

"No...not here."

"I'm sorry Sherlock, what's going on?" She had walked Sherlock here with no real understanding of why, she just followed his orders, trusting in his methods.

He snapped. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"I don't know Sherlock that's why I asked. Please don't be rude to me."

"Sorry," he said. "Listen."

She copied Sherlock, closing her eyes. "Nothing, apart from our breathing I hear nothing."

"No birds, no....traffic," Sherlock huffed the final word. "Move on."

"Ok Sherlock but I have to take my coat off, and you do too. I need to check you over."

She led him to a nearby bus shelter and he slumped on the tilted bench seat, almost slipping off. Molly wedged herself between his knees to prevent a full-on slide, set down her medical bag next to him and opened it, getting out the thermometer first. Sherlock allowed her to do her work, but was not happy with her face. "39.3 Sherlock. If you go any higher I'm afraid this is going to have to stop."

"Just get me to John, Molly," he said.

"You know I'm going to do all I can. You have to work with me though. Here, drink some of this and take these. Open up." She put some antibiotics and painkillers in his mouth and squirted some more powerade in to swallow it down. Sherlock gulped it back and let out a pained sigh.

But a few minutes later he mumbled "Not good," barged Molly out of the way, dropped to his knees and vomited into the road. Alarm bells rang in Molly's head. Here they were, out in the cold with no way of him keeping down fluids or drugs. She had to think quickly, outside the box, or Sherlock was not going to fulfil his wish.

She rubbed his back before leading him back to the seat. "I'm going to put your IV line back in Sherlock, I've got a bag here, OK? It might give you an extra hour, that's all I can do."

Sherlock hugged himself, shivering and wretching. He was beyond a mess. "Thank...you," he said.

Molly helped Sherlock's coat off, and she hid it behind a wall so it wouldn't be stolen, which she did with her own coat. She could grab them later. She rolled up his sleeve and reinserted the line and then, with surgical tape, secured the one bag of fluids and antibiotics she still had with her, onto the top of Sherlock's shoulder. She wasn't sure if it would work but it would have to do for now. Sherlock had goosebumps all over him, but Molly could feel the heat radiating from his battered body. If adrenaline hadn't been coursing through her veins, she would have been crying.

She got them both ready and, in what was now a well-rehearsed move, they stood together. "This way," he said, and he gestured back towards Deptford's urban sprawl.

....................................... 

Molly's heart pounded, and her stomach felt sick. She hadn't slept for coming up to 24 hours, she hadn't eaten anything, she hadn't stopped. All to keep Sherlock going for just a little more time. The IV line she had inserted, and the trick to secure it onto his shoulder, seemed to be working, but Sherlock was exhausted and while his temperature had dropped ever so slightly, the mutterings and incoherency continued. She was in fear for him. She loved him so much and here he was, using her as a crutch, as a life support.

She didn't want to be that person, she wanted to be more, and yet all she could be was this.

So far, they had shuffled down Watergate Street, along Evelyn Street and across to Creek Road, in the direction of the Cutty Sark. It was still and quiet. That hour in the night just before the dawn when time seems to stop. Her phone buzzed. Sherlock was too embroiled in his own mind to notice, so Molly looked down and peered at the message.I

_It's bacterial, get him to A &E. I can't have him die too_

Molly typed slowly back.

_John isn't dead Mary, we will find him. I will take Sherlock as soon as I can."_

She contemplated telling Sherlock but wondered if it was worth it. She looked up at him and the determination on his face told her that his health would have to hold out for a little while longer. She knew he wouldn't stop anyway.

"Next right," Sherlock said, as they approached Copperas Street. "Smaller factory....close to creek."

They slowly made their way down the narrow road, barely lit and frightening to the young pathologist. She got her phone out to light the way with the screen. Approaching the dilapidated building, Sherlock froze. "Here. Listen."

Molly did as she was told, looking up to Sherlock who had somehow become paler, not that she was sure how. The muscles in his cheeks flexed, and she felt his heartbeat rise. Sweat was starting to break on his forehead and the top of his lips, which were clamped into a thin white line of tension. He looked at her. "Listen."

The very early morning light seemed to peek through at the far end of the road, and she could hear a boat's engine. The Creek Road bridge, she could see, had more and more headlights upon it, but most tellingly, she heard the early cheeps of birdsong. Just the odd one or two, but they were there.

"We're here," he said, and with a grunt he pulled himself to a normal standing position, taking some of the weight off Molly's poor shoulders.

"Are you ok? Are you sure about this?" Molly said, straightening out herself. Sherlock didn't speak, his look back said it all. With one hand on Molly's shoulder, the pair moved towards the building with more purpose. Molly took out her phone one more time and sent a text.

_Copperas St. Quick._

...............

Lestrade had not long been to the three dockside factories himself when the text came. It was all he needed to know. Messages were quickly sent out to all teams to approach Copperas Street from each end, silently and without alarm. He was a good 20 minutes' walk away, but he broke into a sprint to try to catch Molly and Sherlock up before the cavalry arrived.

Thankfully, he had his combat boots on instead of his usual office shoes and could get a head of steam. Smoking didn't help the lungs but the legs worked quickly enough and within ten minutes, he had reached the southern end of the road. He could see nothing, but with his gun in hand, he moved through with confidence. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he realised the finality, the enormity, of what was about to happen. Suddenly, in the far distance, he saw two hunched figures approach a gate. He could not shout in case The Intruder was on the scene, so he picked up the pace again and signalled with a brief couple of whistles.

Sherlock's head turned quickly in reply. The swift movement made him dizzy and he stumbled, before anger filled his face. "What did you do?" he said to Molly, who stuttered in reply, "I text him Sherlock, you can't do this alone."

"For God's sake!" Sherlock was burning up again, his temperature and rage rising like a rocket. "I thought I could trust you."

"You can Sherlock, please don't get angry. I did this for you," tears welled up in Molly's eyes, while fever raged in Sherlocks.

Lestrade took Sherlcok by the shoulders and Molly turned away to hide her emotions. "Sherlock I need you here, but you need us here as well. We're going to do this together, ok? Molly has done the best thing. What if the attacker is here? Could you fight him off? Could you risk hurting Molly?"

Sherlock looked over at his life support. Despite feeling so sick, and so focused on staying conscious and finding John, he found room in his apparently stone-cold heart to feel a pang of guilt and even affection to the young pathologist. So meek on the outside, the heart of a lion inside. "Sorry," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry."

"It's OK Sherlock, I —"

"No it's not, it's unffffff....." he couldn't finish the last word as his eyes rolled backwards. Lestrade and Molly reacted instantly, holding him up as Molly slapped his face.

"FOCUS" Sherlock heard as he was back in his mind palace, the sting of the slap causing him to gasp at his breath and come back to reality. His eyes swam around in the darkness and slowly focused in on Molly. "Molly?" She slapped him again. "Don't make me ever do this again, you hear?" she said, like a scolding mother. "Now come on, we've a rescue to lead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all enjoying the tale? Things are about to come to a head...more angst abounds!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating, real life getting in the way! 
> 
> Just wanted to take this opportunity to say a HUGE thank you to everyone who has clicked here and read my story, to everyone who has given kudos and commented, it feels great to know people like it! So thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Hope you enjoy the latest instalment :)

Police in black uniforms moved in the black of night. The darkest hour is always the one before dawn. They split into four teams, approaching each visible entrance like predatory cats. Molly and Lestrade stood side by side with Sherlock, looking at the detective for a sign. He was stood, ghostly pale and swaying slightly, with his eyes pressed tightly shut. He was listening again. "Right. Possibly rear," he suddenly said.

Lestrade clocked Sherlock's instruction immediately and went to inform the other teams. Sherlock raised his hand and pressed against Lestrade's arm. "No. Keep it this way. Trick him." The walkie talkie went back onto Lestrade's belt. "You going to help me or not," Sherlock said, short but quiet. Neither Molly or Lestrade answered, instead gripping each of the detective's elbows and leading him towards the lion's den.

Eight miles away, in the vintage shabby chic of Mrs Hudson's kitchen, the housekeeper and John's wife sat at her small table, holding each other's hands. Two coffee cups, steaming with a strong black brew, and a mobile phone lay between them. They had been sitting, staring at the phone, for hours on end, in silence, Mrs Hudson breaking the scene only to put the kettle on.

She finally plucked up the courage. "I'm surprised you haven't gone out looking for him, dear. What with all that with your past life," Mrs Hudson said. Mary looked at her with defeated eyes. "I promised him I would never go back to that. I know I said I wouldn't hesitate when he was taken. But then I realised, what if I was caught, what if I was prosecuted? John, if he is even still alive, would be left to raise our daughter. And everything we agreed to put behind us, would come back to the surface and I would lose him forever anyway."

The idea of losing John sent Mary into floods of silent tears again. She didn't think she had any left, but there they were, stinging her cheeks. Mrs Hudson gave her another tissue, and put the kettle on again.

"Everything is going to be alright Mary," Mrs Hudson said in a motherly tone. "And I have a feeling you'll have him back by morning."

..................................

A narrow, dark corridor greeted the police team entering the western entrance of the factory, and they crept silently along the edges, taking their time so as not to disturb anything which may have been hidden from view on the floor. There were no torches, no sounds save for the nervous breaths of the officers. The tension was palpable.

Sherlock had gone downhill quickly and was on his last legs as he got to the door, he didn't have much time left before unconsciousness ended the game. He knew it, Molly knew it, and Lestrade knew it. He  was shivering yet roasting hot, shaking from his toes upwards. His knees kept giving out, his head lolling from side to side. He muttered incoherent words, retching in between as he fought off the need to vomit. The IV line Molly had inserted had done all it could. She could feel it was empty, and she didn't have another one. She was out of remedies, out of ideas and fast running out of hope. Lestrade looked like any other worried friend would, and knowing his friend as he did, kept him walking. Somehow.

"Come on," he whispered, looking into Sherlock's glazed eyes. "We're almost there. Almost to John." Lestrade had to believe that.

"J'hn," Sherlock could only mutter, the word jarring him to some form of lucidity.

The trio shuffled in behind the officers. Sensing his surroundings, Sherlock took in the darkness, felt the chill on his skin, smelt the damp from the walls and listened. Despite the infection that was fighting his body he was able to focus once more — although he had no idea how much longer that skill was going to work — in on the tiny sounds that could lead them to John. It was all about John now, he kept Sherlock right. A dim bulb popped in Sherlock's head.

"Right," Sherlock said, quietly and clearly. The focus was there, it was back for one last flourish. "Rooms....are...right, river....is....right."

The officers heard his words and moved over, approaching each old office door and nudging them open. Upon the seventh, there was a breakthrough.

"Sir, look at this," Donovan was on the team, and waved Lestrade over, shock laced in her words. Lestrade was unsure whether Molly could take Sherlock's weight but a forceful nod from the pathlogist gave him the signal to go. What he saw was a room made up like a bedsit. Power supplied a light, a television, a microwave, a fridge and an iron. A toolbag in the corner, next to a pile of bloodied boiler suits, gave Lestrade a chill, as did the police uniform which was neatly hung and ready to wear on a hat stand. Sherlock had been right about one thing but not that it was in Lestrade's division, as the DI discovered when he focused in on the name badge discarded on the blow-up mattress.

"Desk sergeant Morris?" Lestrade said, stunned. "It can't be."

As he said it, the echoes of loud footsteps and a crash came tumbling through the corridor like a wave. They had to catch their own man.

......................

Sherlock didn't have the energy or the inclination to join the chase, only to find John. As Lestrade sent Donovan and the team packing, he saw Sherlock set himself, clench his jaw and lean his shoulder forward as he prepared to complete his own personal mission.  

He looked to Molly, who had gone pale, dark rings under her eyes from the tiredness of the past 24 hours looking even darker through the fear. She had remained stoic, staunch and strong so far. But now, at this crunch moment, she couldn't not remain strong any longer. Tears streamed down her face.

Lestrade exchanged a knowing look to Molly, hoping his eyes and faint smile would offer some comfort, as they took Sherlock at each side and walked into the darkness. There were another dozen or so doors to check on this floor, which was now vacant as the police chased Morris on the floors above. Lestrade could hear the shouting, the thumping footsteps. He prayed not to hear gunfire.

He knew they had to move quickly, so he practically grabbed Sherlock and dragged him to each door now, the clock ticking before a showdown between Morris and the police could end John's life - if it had not already ended.

Sherlock fixed a steely glare ahead, breathing heavily through the shivers, shaking his head every so often, as if to try to banish the fever from his mind. Molly propped Sherlock up as Lestrade kicked in every door.

Every door revealed nothing. Until the very last one.  
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy everyone! Thank you to all who have commented and left kudos, it's so nice to know you're enjoying it!

Lestrade had kicked the door in, as he had done with all the other doors beforehand. In each he had shone a torch in and found only the remnants of the factory business or the white gaze of rat's eyes.

But in this one he found a man, tied to a chair, half naked, pale skin peeking out from beyond the filth and dried blood of his torture. "John!" was all he could muster, shouting it as Sherlock pulled free from his support and stumbled frantically to his friend's aid. Sherlock grabbed the doctor by his chin, and slapped his face. When no response came, the detective's fevered mind played him tricks.

Lestrade watched in shock, as Sherlock broke down. His shoulders shook as he sobbed. "He's dead, he's dead...." he said, defeated, dropping to his hands and knees and crawling to a corner, struggling to catch his breath amid the tears that refused to stop.

Lestrade turned his gaze to Molly, who seemed unable to move from her spot in the doorway, and then raced over to the chair, lifting the doctor's head and putting his fingers on his neck.

"He's got a pulse, Sherlock, he's alive!" Lestrade said, rushing round to the back of the chair, undoing the knot which had tied the poor man to it for however long, and gently lowering John to the floor by his armpits.

Molly, by this point, had snapped out of her shock. "Greg you need to call an ambulance while I work on John."

Lestrade pulled back and watched Molly burst into life. It was clear Molly knew this was her area of relative expertise, and she moved with speed and confidence to get John comfortable, using what little she had left in her medical bag to clean him up, and rubbing his arms and legs to try to generate a little warmth and circulation. Molly looked up. "Are you going to call or not? John needs fluids and I've used them all up on Sherlock."

At this point she broke her focus from John and looked for Sherlock. In the darkness she could not see much and but she at least expected to find the alabaster skin of the man she loved in the distance. Instead, she made out the dark shadow of a suit laid on the floor.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you with us?"

Nothing.

"Shit Greg get him into the recovery position now, if he vomits he could choke."

Lestrade manhandled the gangly detective onto his right side, knowing his left was the source of the problem, all the while barking orders at the ambulance teams which had been parked at the wharf. They would arrive in minutes, thankfully. He looked down at Sherlock and felt a lump in his throat rise. It looked as though the younger man had simply given up.  "Come on lad, come on. Not now. Don't do this." The drip of his tears blended with the beads of sweat which rested on Sherlock's temple.

And then gunfire rang out in the building.

.....................................

Donovan had led the team upstairs and to another maze of offices leading out to a main factory floor, old machinery providing sufficient hiding places for Morris. The officers had been well-trained in things like this and moved with precision and speed, working in teams to try to surround their colleague.

But he had moved quickly, and equally silently since bolting from his hiding place. He had been, to a point, prepared for this. Being on the inside he knew what areas were being searched. And he knew the moment would come when he would have his 15 minutes of fame in front of the people who had dismissed him every day for the last 12 years. Every day he had clocked in and clocked out, no one asking him how he was, no one inviting him for the works' nights out, no one praising him for a job well done. Just indifference.

When Moriarty's cases hit his desk he was enthralled. He'd always gone through each case before completing the necessary paperwork and filing them away properly. They had always been so boring, so crude. But Moriarty's inventiveness with his crimes, and his ability to be a somebody when, for so long he had been overlooked... now that attracted him.

In equal measure, Sherlock infuriated him. Seeing the lanky detective on an almost daily basis, dismissing everyone's efforts and showing off his skills at every given opportunity, made him understand just why Moriarty wanted to bring him down. 

Moriarty had succeeded in his plans, with devastating effect...or so Morris had thought. So when the Hat Detective made a triumphant return, back to his belittling best and reducing Anderson to another breakdown, Morris wanted revenge. He wanted to make Sherlock pay, and he wanted notoriety. He wanted to be the man who broke Sherlock again.

In this moment, as he hid behind a rusting heap of old machinery — he had no idea of his purpose — he knew he had succeeded. He had monitored the CCTV at Scotland Yard, he had traced the radio messages from Lestrade. He had taken John to the edge, and pushed Sherlock over. His work was done.

He emerged from the darkness, looked into the faint glimmer of the eyes of his colleagues, and put the gun in his mouth.

Donovan emerged from the gloom, one hand out to try to settle her colleague, now a criminal. "Morris. Don't do th—"

_BANG_

......................................

It was 5.10am when, sitting at Mrs Hudson's tiny kitchen table with her head in her hands, her phone began to ring. Mary jolted upright and looked at the phone. It was Molly.  
"Do you want me to pick it up," Mrs Hudson said. She had not moved from Mary's side, only to tend to her daughter or make another comforting brew.

Mary lifted the handset with shaking hands and, just as the phone was about to ring off, pressed the green button. Her bottom lip shook, as the muffled sounds of Molly's voice came through, and the tears began to roll.

"What is it dear, please?" Mrs Hudson pleaded. She had no idea if Mary's response was one of shock, relief or grief.

"Ok I'll be there....right...away," Mary said between sniffs and catching breaths. She put the phone back on the table, and then moved with more speed than she knew she had in her, grabbing her coat and bag and racing out the door. "He's alive," she barked down the corridor, slamming the door of 221b behind her.

Mrs Hudson sank to the floor, resting her back against the door of her well-worn oven, and quietly cried.  
  


...................................

The scene was pitiful. Two men laid out on the grubby and damp floor, torchlight highlighting their pale and sickly skin, teams of paramedics working to get them comfortable at a frantic pace.

The 12ft-square room was filled with activity but the two most important people were still amid the chaos. And watching it all were the other heroes of the piece, Lestrade and Molly. The incompetent detective and the flustering pathologist - incompetent and flustering no more. Sherlock, and John, had brought out the calm, the collected, the methodical and the brave in them. Now it was over, it was as though those superpowers had retracted. Lestrade had no words, and Molly had crumbled. All they could do was hug one another, and share in silent tears.

As Sherlock and John were taken away to the waiting ambulances, Lestrade and Molly parted ways, straightened up, took deep breaths and steeled themselves for the trip. Lestrade went with John, and of course, Molly went with Sherlock. She would see this through to the end, to when the object of her affection would be back in his armchair plucking at his violin and all would be normal again.

She got her phone from her pocket and dialled. "Mary, it's Molly...."  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end of our story now, just a few more chapters to go I think. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, for leaving comments and kudos, and for coming back. I still can't believe people have read it!

Two ambulances sped through the London dawn, swerving through the morning commute, to the doors of St Bart's. At the entrance, Mary was waiting, and so was Mycroft. Both bore the scars of emotional stress, both exhausted, both silent.

Caring was not an advantage, Mycroft had always said, and it was never truer than now. He knew nothing of his brother's condition, knew little more about John, but knew they both had to survive. If one did not, the other would not be far behind. They were linked, somehow, bonded beyond anything he had ever had with his own sibling. If he was jealous, he would never show it. Emotion was futile.  

Within minutes, the ambulance careered into the bay by Accident and Emergency, doors quickly opened and with speed, the paramedic crews rushed two gurneys into the hospital. Molly and Lestrade followed quickly behind, Molly grabbing Mary, and Mycroft following Lestrade. The quartet of worn faces could only watch as the two injured men were taken into a rapid response room, the doors slamming shut in their faces.

"I will find out what's going on," Mycroft said, in a calm and considered tone which belied his inner turmoil. "We should go and wait somewhere."

An indeterminate amount of time passed. They took turns pacing the waiting room, getting cheap chemical-tasting coffee, and checking their watches and phones. Lestrade went out a couple of times to make contact with Scotland Yard and find out more about Morris's suicide. They had been to his home in Kentish Town, and found his bedroom walls covered in copies of Moriarty's cases, and newspaper cuttings of Sherlock and Richard Brook.

Lestrade had relayed all of this to Molly, Mycroft and Mary in the waiting room. "I should have known this, I had all your division on surveillance this past week," Mycroft said, brow furrowed in frustration.

"That's the thing, Mycroft, he wasn't in my division. He was just a desk sergeant, a general staff member. Nothing special."

"And those are the ones you must always watch," Mycroft said, defeated.

At that point, two doctors knocked gently on the door, and made their entrance.

Relatives of Mr Holmes and Mr Watson?" said the young female doctor. Mycroft and Mary rose to their feet. "Would you like to come with us?"

..........................

The brother and the wife were led into a small office, typically decorated. Postcards from foreign travel on a cork board gave the only colour. Both doctors sat behind a desk, and gestured to both Mary and Mycroft to sit down. The colour drained from both their faces, and Mary was shocked when, as they sat, Mycroft placed his hand on her shoulder, and gave the tiniest of rubs. She would have acknowledged it, if her eyes were not fixed on the people in front of her, who were either the angels of mercy or the grim reaper, she didn't know which.

"We've brought you in here because we feel you should be fully briefed on Mr Holmes's and Dr Watson's condition first, it is up to you then who you tell."

 _Condition_ , Mycroft thought. _Not dead_. He looked across at Mary, who didn't seem to pick up on the hope. He patted her knee.

"Can we see them?" he asked.

"Not yet I'm afraid, both are still critically ill, both suffering infections from their respective wounds. In the case of Mr Holmes, he somehow developed peritonitis, which, because it was not treated fast enough led to septic shock. He is on a lot of antibiotics, he has needed surgery to get rid of the infected tissues, and he is being helped to breathe at the moment, while he rallies. It could take a few days and it would be best if he had no visitors for a little while. Any extra germs could really set him back." The male doctor looked at Mycroft with stern eyes and got a stern look back. "We know who you are Mr Holmes, and I appreciate you can pull a lot of strings. But can you trust us on this one?"

Mycroft shifted in his seat. "Very well," he said curtly.

"What about John," Mary interjected. "Is he the same?"

"No Mrs Watson," the woman doctor said. "He has suffered a lot of physical trauma, the wounds inflicted upon him have become infected and that combined with the hypothermia has left him pretty ill. But he will be able to take visitors soon, once we have him more stable. Again we don't want to set him back, but our concern is the psychological trauma he has suffered might be more of a hurdle. We think sedation for a couple of days will give his body and mind time to rest."

Mary gave out a large sigh, the relief washing over her body, her shoulders slumping. "I really would like to see him, if that's ok?"

Mycroft straightened. "Yes I think Mrs Watson should be allowed, even if it's only for a couple of minutes?"

The doctors looked at one another. "Come on, we'll take you to him now."

Mycroft stood and watched Mary scurry off with the two doctors down the corridor and felt that pang of jealousy once again. She would see her husband. But he would have to wait a little longer for confirmation that his baby brother was still in the land of the living. 

................................

Mary found a sink and scrubbed her hands until they were almost raw. She knew the doctors would want her wearing gloves and a mask but, while she didn't mind wearing the mask, she needed to feel him, feel his skin, feel its warmth and know that the man she loved so dearly, the father of her child, was still alive. With clean hands, a thumping heart and a sick feeling in her stomach, the doctors led her into the small room in the ICU.

There was no way she could stop the tears from falling, no way she could stifle the moans and whimpers of relief and of pain. Her heart ached so badly, like it had been battered with a hammer. There lay her John.

He looked older. Aside from the bandages, tubes and bruises, there was more grey hair on his head, and wrinkles around his eyes and brow, she could swear it. Lines of pain and terror etched on his face forever, she observed. She sat beside him, and took his hand.

"Hello darling," she said, through the tears. "Your daughter wants to see you soon, do you hear me? I'm here for you."

She gulped down and added: "Sherlock's here for you too." She had no idea if that was a wise thing, but she felt he had to believe he was ok. It would help him, she was sure of it. As she looked at John, so peaceful but so poorly, she couldn't help but think of the detective, in some room somewhere else, fighting for his life, and all alone. He had said once that alone protected him. Did alone protect him now, she wondered?

She looked back at John. Somehow, she knew he had heard her. His heart rate had risen when she had spoken, the beeps told her as much. Now if Sherlock knew John was ok, maybe it would help him?

She looked across her shoulder, and saw the two doctors filling out paperwork in the communal office, a strong smell of coffee telling her they were flagging. "I'll be right back," she whispered, and employing all her best skills of invisibility, sneaked out of the room.

.................................

  
It didn't take her long to find Sherlock. The high dependency unit within the ICU was made up of several private annexe rooms, but only three had no-entry signs on the door.

Sherlock, she deduced, would be the one nearest to the communal office, given what the doctors had told her and Mycroft. Sherlock was very unstable, not long out of surgery. The closer the doctors were, the better chance he had of survival if he crashed.

Crouching, she moved when they moved. It took a few minutes to get to the other side of the room, but eventually, she got there and, like any expert agent would, sneaked in without a sight or sound. She saw him. So still, so pale, so helpless, machines helping him stay alive, for now. Her gut wrenched as she saw the sacrifice he had made, once again, for John. She had so much to thank him for.

She slathered her hands in antibacterial gel, rubbing it up her arms and between her fingers. She would not kill him again.

She stood at the end of the bed, refusing to go anywhere nearer for fear of making him worse. But unlike the last time she had addressed him from the end of a hospital bed with a threat, this time she pleaded.

"Please Sherlock, please make it," she said, quiet sobs between breaths. "I'm not supposed to be here but you have to know John is alive. John needs you now. I need you. Please don't go, you fight this all the way, you hear? Don't you dare give up on me. John's alive."

The pace of the heart rate monitor increased. Mary smiled.


	16. Chapter 16

Over the next couple of days, Sherlock remained under sedation, ventilation and isolation, but the team of doctors grew tentatively confident with each passing hour that the detective was rallying. All his vitals were improving, very slowly, but they were going in the right direction. Regardless, it was still distressing for those who cared for him, only able to look at him through a pane of glass. They knew full well he hated contact, hated sentiment. And that pane of glass was preventing a tsunami of it coming his way. Good for him, not good for everyone else.

They took it in turns to see him, as if watching him would make a difference. Mycroft would appear at the most random of hours, usually between 3am and 5am, when Lestrade would take over before his shift at Scotland Yard. Molly would come after work, and Mrs Hudson at some point during the day. She had been cleaning Baker Street frantically, as if scrubbing every surface until it gleamed would clean up the mess laying in the ward. And bring them home.

Always there, was Mary. With their daughter sometimes, although Mrs Hudson had been an excellent Nanny as well as a housekeeper.

Today was the day they would be rousing John. Mary was nervous, unsure whether the man she married would still be there when he opened his eyes. Molly had taken the day off work to be by her side, and help her through the ordeal.

"He'll be ok won't he?" Mary asked, nerves causing her voice to wobble ever so slightly.

"Course he will, he has to be doesn't he? He knows he has you and your baby to fight for, he has Sherlock to fight for too..." Molly's voice trailed off, her eyes darting off into the direction of the other room. She would have to check in on him soon.

A team of doctors and nurses filed in ready to bring John round, led by the female doctor Mary had dealt with on that first night, who she knew now as Jennfier. "You can stay if you want, you being here might keep him calm," she said, a gentle hand on Mary's arm.

Mary nodded, and the process began.

.........................

Out of the darkness, came light. Real, proper, bright light. He felt aware of it through the lids of his eyes, which he couldn't seem to open very well, hard as he tried. But it was light, in fact, it felt like sunshine.

He wiggled his toes, brushing against cotton sheets. He tapped at the blanket on him, gently, and then he heard voices. Muffled but soothing voices. Hands around him, feeling around, pressing buttons, writing notes.

But then, hands pulling at a tube in his throat, making him gag. This wasn't nice. His heart rate rose, as panic began to set in. Other hands came in and pushed him down, why were they doing that? Suddenly he heard another voice, a familiar voice. A calming voice.

"John? John darling calm down you're safe, ok? You're safe."

He fought to open his eyes, managing to get them to a slit, which let in far more light than he was comfortable with. He screwed up his face and groaned. Someone noticed and closed the curtains, dimming the day. That was better. He tried again, and this time it was more manageable. Through a blurred haze he saw the short blonde hair and large eyes of a woman he never thought he'd see again. He moved his hand out for her, groggily, and she took it. The touch comforted him, he felt whole.

"Would you like a drink John?" Molly said quietly, presenting a cup of water with a straw towards his mouth. Tilting his head he took a sip and it was like nectar to him, cold and nourishing and wonderful. He'd never take a thing for granted again.

John never let go of Mary's hand. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, the after-effects of the tube leaving him temporarily mute. "It's ok John, it's ok, just rest. You need to rest and then you can come home to me," Mary said, stroking her husband's arm, more tears flushing her relieved face.

John mouthed a name, and both women saw. They looked at one another, and then again at the stricken doctor. While Mary was an excellent liar, Molly was not, and John sensed the sadness and worry. He mouthed the name again.

"Just rest John, Sherlock is fine, just rest," Mary said. "Sherlock is fine."

With that, Molly resumed her vigil outside Sherlock's room, face pressed up against the glass, praying for him, longing for him. She'd take a lifetime of underhand comments and dismissive glances just to have him back. Just to have him awake.

.................

Later that day, Dr Jennifer Rogers, the woman tasked with the care of Dr John Watson, was wrapping up another 15-hour shift, when she felt the need to pop her head in the door and check in on her priority patient.

"How are we feeling, John?" She looked over to Mary, who was sleeping in the chair beside his bed. John was groggy, but knew he was being spoken to.

"Er, okay, I think. Drugs are good," he said, producing a small smile.

"We aim to please," said Jennifer, as she approached the bed. She knew what was coming.

"Where's Sherlock? Why hasn't he come to see me yet? Mary just keeps saying he's fine but I don't believe her."

She could not lie.

"He's been very ill, John. He went into septic shock trying to find you, and he's been sedated ever since while we help him fight the infection. We're not letting anyone except the medical team see him, because we just don't want to risk any further germs. But he is improving and you'll be able to see him fairly soon, although I need to consult with my colleague to give you a proper timeframe. Could be tomorrow, could be next week." Jennifer was now sitting on the end of John's bed, hands rested on one thigh. She saw the panic and sadness in John's bruised eyes, and gently put one hand on his leg. "He'll be ok, you know. We got you through the worst, didn't we? And we can't let the great Sherlock Holmes leave this earth too early, can we?"

John had no answer, sighing in response instead. He would have to wait. "When he wakes up, can I be there?"

"Of course John. Don't worry we know how important he is to you. Right," she said, getting to her feet. "I have to go now, but I will be back tomorrow, I think we can get you up and walking about a little bit."

John smiled but his eyes drooped as tiredness took over, and Jennifer left the room. She walked into the path of Dr Chiverton, the man responsible for Sherlock's care. 

"Dr Watson wants to be present when you wake Mr Holmes," she said, "And I've told him that's fine. It is fine?"

Dr Chiverton shrugged. "I'd say yes but what if it doesn't go to plan? Dr Watson's been through enough, don't you think?"

"I think he's strong enough, Luke. And I think it will help Mr Holmes. The two seem intrinsically linked."

The two doctors glanced at their respective rooms, looked back, and nodded.

"Tomorrow," said Dr Chiverton. "I think tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a short one this time around, I'm trying to go through what I've written and balance it out! After this one, two more and it's all done! Thanks once again for reading, for giving kudos and commenting. I really really appreciate it :)


	17. Chapter 17

From the depths of nothing, an abyss of blackness, he felt something. He had no idea what it was, or where it was, but it was comforting.

The contact, wherever it had been, had generated an awareness, like one of those lightning balls, where you touch the glass and the electricity migrates to your finger. It was electrifying, snapping him back to some kind of reality. As time passed - and he had no idea how long that time was - the touch became more refined, as he became aware of his shape, his form, once again. It was his hand, he surmised through the fog. He started to hear sounds, nothing coherent in his mind, like a distant song, of sorts. It came and went, but it was always nice.

At some point the noise stopped, and the feeling went, and he felt himself dropping back into the abyss. It was like floating in space. But suddenly, he felt firmer touch, fast touch, and then a feeling of drowning. As though he had been holding his breath, without realising he had been doing it, and then realising he needed air. His brain told his body to breathe, but it wasn't complying very well. Like a dream of falling and waking up before the impact, he grabbed at the air with his mouth, arching his back, coughing, but still he could not wake. It was a horrible nightmare from which he felt he would never escape. More hands, more noises came into this blackened hollow. His senses were sharpening, albeit at the slowest of paces.

Voices became more refined, he heard his name, a lot, and he heard man's voice, and a woman's. And beeping, all kinds of different beeping. A bit not good.

...............

Molly was sitting at Sherlock's bedside for the first time. Having the permission to walk through the door and actually be close to him made her cry, and she wasted no time in taking up her vigil by his side.

She took his hand, knowing it would probably be the only time he would not shy away from her touch, and stroked each finger, pressing it up against her cheek, kissing the back of it. She didn't care who saw, or if Sherlock ever found out. She was done keeping her heart under wraps. It was broken anyway.

For hours, she spoke to him, told him about the cadavers she had been cutting up, about the new case she was helping Lestrade with, about her cat. Anything she could think of.

Over the course of the day, Mary had stopped by and had kissed him on the forehead, Lestrade had visited and read him some cold cases and even Mycroft came in with a book on the rare plants of Madagascar. He said he'd read it to him later.

At around 6pm, Dr Chiverton knocked softly on the door, clipboard in hand, and came in, moving around Molly and Sherlock in silence, taking all the data he felt he needed.

"We're going to try waking Mr Holmes up shortly, just so you know," he whispered. Molly's face lit up. "Really? Can I, erm, can I be here?"

"Well Dr Watson has specifically asked and I don't want too many people in here, it's going to be tiring and scary enough for him," he said. He then looked at Molly's tender grip on Sherlock's hand. "But, if you keep out of the way when I ask you to, and don't bombard him, I suppose you can stay." Molly exhaled as if she had been holding on forever.

"You hear that, Sherlock? You're coming back to us."

................

John was wheeled into the room at the same time as the medical team charged with bringing his friend back into the land of the living. It had been a tiring effort getting into the wheelchair but Mary was by his side, as wife and nurse, to help him through. She waited outside the room, looking in and biting her thumbnail with nerves.

If Mary was nervous, John was petrified. Molly mirrored his face and, as Dr Chiverton and the team moved in, Molly released Sherlock's hand and took John's. Sherlock's life, and theirs, were in the doctors' hands now.

It looked uncomfortable taking him off the ventilator and pulling the tube from his throat, Molly thought. And those fears were confirmed when Sherlock, still in deep sleep, began to struggle as he fought for air. The doctors put a nasal cannula and a mask over his face to get the oxygen he sought. Several pairs of hands held him still as Dr Chiverton and his assitant injected the drugs to bring him round. With care and precision they monitored his release from sleep, moving with him to make the journey as smooth as possible.

John gulped down the bile in his throat, Molly sobbed silently, and, after what felt like a damned eternity, the consulting detective's eyes began to flutter.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "Sherlock it's me, it's John, I'm here." John reached out and took Sherlock's hand. The younger man's fingers twitched in appreciation.

"You're not going to get much from him for a little while, you know that," Dr Chiverton said, almost patronisingly. John shot him a cursive look. "Yes I know but the sooner he knows I'm here, the quicker he'll be home."

"Sherlock it's Molly, we're all here for you Sherlock, just come to us when you're ready, just focus when you're ready."

_Focus._

The word Molly used to bring Sherlock back into line, the word which kept him alive the first time round, and this time.

The word he would always thank her for. He heard her. He had heard John too, but Molly's codeword had pulled him out of the dark. He tried to open his eyes again, they felt like the rest of him - weak, aching and as heavy as lead - but he persevered and his greeny-blue eyes met those of the people who held vigil.

Molly watched as Sherlock did just as John had done three days earlier, and tried to speak.Just as before, no sound came, but she and John smiled as they saw his mouth form their names.

..................

Progress was slow for Sherlock. He knew when he was trying to find John that he was on borrowed time, that his transport was on the verge of being beyond a breakdown, a write-off.

He knew then that, if he made it, he would really pay for it. But he didn't realise the cost would be quite so high.

It was a struggle. His mind took its time to get sharp again, and it annoyed him that he needed to sleep for almost 20 hours a day. If he didn't, he felt the colour drain from his face and the nausea set in.

He tried to eat, but a lot of it sat uncomfortably on his stomach, and for a while the little nutrient-rich shakes they gave pensioners were all he'd consume. But what he hated most was the physical weakness he felt. For the first two days he could barely lift his head off the pillow.

Molly and Mary offered to keep him clean and shaven, but although he trusted them he didn't like the idea of them seeing him so vulnerable. Although dignity had gone out the window, he could still try to keep some of it with his friends. So, anonymous nurses did it instead. It was depressing.

"Sherlock are you ok? I mean, not physically, I know how you are but...well, you know," Molly said, putting her tea on the side. She had visited every day, and Sherlock had not minded one bit. Her company was...nice.

"Not really," he said, still slightly slurring.

Molly's head shot up, she hadn't expected such a direct answer.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really," he repeated. Then, after a long pause, he spoke again. "I am going to get out of here, aren't I?"

"Course you are, you've got John getting discharged in a couple of days, he and Mary...and me, we'll help you get back on your feet."

Sherlock sighed. "You don't need me holding you all back -"

"You wouldn't be, you won't," Molly said. She tentatively reached out for his hand, and he didn't stop her. Molly sensed she was treading new ground. "Sherlock when we thought you wouldn't make it," Molly took a deep breath. "When they said we couldn't even visit you, none of us coped well. I know you don't want to hear that, I know you hate the idea of sentiment, but you matter to us a whole lot more than you think. You hold us all together."

Sherlock considered his response. He felt so low, so helpless. He looked down at his hand holding Molly's noted how thin he was, how pale he was compared to her. How much everything ached, even breathing. Baker Street seemed so far away.

"No Molly," he said, closing his eyes. "You do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this folks! Once again, huge thanks to all of you who've read, commented and left kudos. Feedback is always appreciated and I hope you're still enjoying!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....this is it. Final chapter.
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

It took John another five days of care and recouperation to get back to Mary and his daughter. He went back to their family home and stayed away from Baker Street until it was complete again, until Sherlock was discharged and comfortable. The last time he had been there without Sherlock, Sherlock was dead, and that was too painful a feeling to revisit.

He visited Sherlock every day though, spending hours with him on the ward, reading him the papers and helping him recover his strength. John was the only person Sherlock allowed to see during his therapy. Molly had offered but he did not want to appear weak in front of her any more. However, he knew John could see right through him anyway so what was the point of trying to hide?

"How much longer is this going to take?" Sherlock panted, out of breath after walking a short distance to the sink and back. He was knocked out by the little journey. "It's been two weeks."

"Another two I would think mate. You were that close to dying," John pinched his fingers together. "You've lost a lot of muscle tone and weight, you need to get your strength up. You're doing well."

"I'm bloody existing, that's what," Sherlock snapped as he slumped back against the pillows. "I just want to go home. These walls, this bed, its driving me mad."

"I know mate, I know." John put his newspaper on his lap. The bruises on his kind face were fading, Sherlock noted. He looked well, under the circumstances.

"John, what happened to you...I'm so sorry I couldn't find you faster. I'm so sorry..."

"Sherlock it's fine. I'm still here. I have my wife, my daughter and I have you. Nothing was lost. It's done."

Sherlock screwed his face up, a deep crinkle at the top of his nose indicating his confusion. He broke into a smile. "You're fine? I'm the one who says that!"

John smiled in return, and despite his best friend's pale complexion, a glimmer of playful genius sparkled in his eyes. He would be home soon, he thought.

.....................

As John predicted, two weeks later, Sherlock left hospital. His suit was still a little baggy, but the coat, which Lestrade's officers had retrieved and dry cleaned as a priority the next day, felt so good. Everyone was there to see him off, Dr Chiverton and his team, as well as Dr Rogers, and the nurses who had helped him on his feet. Sherlock shook all of their hands, and had a hug for a couple of the ladies who had come to take a shine to the detective.

John and Molly walked with him to the entrance, where Lestrade and Mycroft were waiting, maintaining an awkward civility and a cigarette each. "Thought you'd quit," Sherlock said, sarcastically.

"They're low tar," Mycroft retorted. "Do you want to go home or not then?"

Sherlock and John got in Mycroft's car, with Mary and Molly getting a lift with Lestrade. It was a short journey back to 221b, but for Sherlock it couldn't pass quickly enough. He did take the time, however, to appreciate the London life buzzing past his window. He never took it for granted before, and he sure as hell wouldn't in the future. John looked over at his friend and noted the wonder in his face. He smiled.

The familiar door with its knocker pushed to the right, just the way he liked it. Speedy's Cafe spilling out with workers getting their lunch, the smell of cakes baking from Mrs Hudson's kitchen. The door opened to her beaming face, arms outstretched for her boy. Sherlock did not hesitate, and embraced his housekeeper warmly. Everyone, including Mycroft, was smiling. It was the happiest everyone had been in so long, and no one was holding back. Everyone filed inside, and Mrs Hudson got the kettle on. Getting up the stairs had taken it out of Sherlock and he retreated to his armchair straight away, leaving his coat on.

"We won't keep you Sherlock, we'll leave you to it," said Lestrade, hands in pockets.

"But before then, we've got something for you," Molly interjected, before dashing out the door.

"Whats....what's going on?" Sherlock asked quizzically, as if the sentence hadn't computed. Molly reappeared with an elaborately wrapped gift. Sherlock looked at it, and tried to deduce as she handed it to him.

"Clearly you wrapped it Molly, appalling choice of paper but expertly cut and sealed," Sherlock said with a smile. "And I suspect this gift was your idea as well, given the speed you put into getting it for me and the silly little grin you have on your face."

"Sherlock, really not now," John said.

"I was joking John, I think Molly and I know each other well enough now for her to know whether I mean it," he said, directing a wise and kind look Molly's way. She knew he was being sincere.

"So, back to the deduction....." Sherlock paused. "Actually, let's just open it shall we? Who am I thanking for this, it wasn't just you was it Molly?"

"Well, it was my idea but we all chipped in," Molly, kneeling by Sherlock's seat, looked down at her hands. Sherlock lifted her chin with a finger and looked her in the eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly. John looked at the scene, stunned. Was that, was that genuine affection he just showed Molly?

Sherlock carefully unwrapped the gift and lifted the lid off the plain black box. Inside was a violin case.

Sherlock's face lit up, as he took it out from the box, and opened the case to reveal a new version of his old instrument.

He plucked at a string. Out of tune, but almost there. Just like him.


End file.
